The Dance Lesson
by NinjaSquirls
Summary: The Fuhrer's orders were simple: all State Alchemists must learn to dance. But when Roy and Ed are forced to be partners, they find that simple things can quickly become complicated.It's written by me, so how could it not be an EdRoy yaoi fic?.Yay fluff!
1. Dance of Death

A/N: Damn the workings of my deranged mind! I don't know why, but somehow being at the balloon glow last night gave me an idea for an EdRoy story. WHY? God only knows - probably the same reason that seeing a yucca cactus made me think of Envy. Yes, I have issues. This was gonna be a oneshot, but it was getting long, so I decided to break it up so you have all the fun of waiting for the next part. Please enjoy the silly fluff! I promise, it will get more romantic soon. Yay for Ed, Roy, and us rabid yaoi fangirls (though to our defense, they are definitely in love)

Rated T for swearing (because it's more fun that way) and brief groping (but I absolutely DO NOT do lemon, ever)

Disclaimer: does the art look like it done by a 4 year old with a motor disorder? Are there Ed and Roy onscreen kisses? Then no, I don't own FMA. Which probably makes a lot of people very happy.

**The Fullmetal Alchemist and the Dance of Death**

The long hallway echoed with the sounds of shouted curses and heavy crashing thumps.

"Damn Fuhrer, always full of the _brilliant_ ideas and the _wonderful_ plans! I hope he gets kicked by an incontinent camel! I hope one of his military dogs explodes his empty head! I'd like to see him agree to this! Hell and Damnation!"

The Fullmetal Alchemist was not happy. And when Edward Elric was not happy, everyone knew about it. In this case, everyone within three miles of the hallway leading to Practice Hall F. The reason: Practice Hall F had been officially set aside, by reason of the Fuhrer's new mandate for military personnel, for…_dance lessons_. That's right. Edward Elric (he shuddered even thinking about it), had to take _dance lessons_, because the Fuhrer was holding some sort of diplomatic… ball… thingy, and all the State Alchemists were going to act as escorts, so orders had come down that any Alchemist who couldn't dance had to report to Practice Hall F at 6:00 for lessons. Which Ed had done, except that he was now having second thoughts. Second thoughts of the "maybe if I use alchemy to blow up the room, I can get out of lessons, at least for today" variety. By now, his stomping strides had led up him up to the door of the hall, and he decided to go with his instincts and convert the room to rubble. With a loud shout, he kicked the door open violently with his automail leg, causing it to collapse in splinters, then clapped his hands together…and let them fall to his sides as he gaped in shock. Roy Mustang was leaning against the wall, looking bored and slightly sullen.

"Co-Co-Colonel?" he squeaked.

"Why Fullmetal, how nice to see you," Roy drawled. "Don't tell me our illustrious Fuhrer managed to capture you as well? I somehow thought he'd… _overlook_ you."

"WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SMALL HE'D HAVE TO STAND ON A PHONEBOOK TO SEE OVER A CURB, YOU MORALLY BANKRUPT COLONEL WITH A MINISKIRT FETISH?"

"Well," a new voice broke in, "looks like someone has a lot of passion, that's very good in a dancer, very good. Now, if you don't mind, may we begin?"

Ed suddenly realized that the room contained quite a few people who weren't the Bastard Colonel, and all of them were looking at him. He slowly turned a very lovely shade of red, stammering out an apology to the rather irritated dance instructor.

"Alright, everyone, now that that's over, pick a partner, you can't dance alone," called the instructor.

Which was when Ed had his second unpleasant revelation of the day. There were probably 40 people in the room, all dressed in blue military uniforms (except for him)…and all male. He looked around, hoping that he'd overlooked someone with a chest, or that he'd see long hair pinned up under a blue hat, but no such luck. The only ponytail he saw was on a guy almost as large as Armstrong.

"Mustang," he whispered urgently, "That weirdo said to pair up, but there's only guys in here!"

"Really," said the Colonel sarcastically. "Is that so? I hadn't noticed. I assume that all the female personnel already know how to dance; signs of an ill-spent youth, I suppose. Riza can certainly be quite graceful when she wishes… Just grow up, Ed. It's not that big a deal."

"Fine, but you're going to be my partner," retaliated the blonde.

"Me?" Mustang asked in strangled voice, "Why me? And why should I?"

"You're going to do it because otherwise I'll tell everyone at the office that you're here. And…I don't know any of these guys! They could be creepy perverts who'll try to take advantage of my youthful good looks! At least I already know what I'm getting into with you. Just don't get any ideas, okay?"

"Fine, but I get to lead…since I'm taller."

Needless to say, it was quite a while before the flashing lights, explosions, and shouts of "WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SHORT HE'D GET LOST IN A SHAG CARPET? I'LL TRANSMUTE YOU INSIDE OUT AND INTO NEXT WEEK!" faded and class (moved to a slightly smaller but more…existent room down the hall) could begin again.

* * *

"One and two, three and four, step forward, step back, turn, turn, and one and two…" The staccato speech of the dance instructor had faded to a dull murmur; almost all of Ed's concentration was directed toward remembering the complicated sequence of steps that formed the _Sala da Ballo Leggiadre, _the most well known Ametrian formal dance (according to Mr. Dance Instructor). This would have been hard enough in and of itself (quite a few people had already gotten tangled up and fallen), even without Ed's natural awkwardness, but there was another complication. Every part of Ed that wasn't trying to figure out how to dance was passionately devoted to a) reminding him how uncomfortable and weird it was to have the colonel's hand resting on his back, and b) figuring out how to maintain the farthest possible distance from the colonel without actually breaking apart. Unfortunately, this was not conducive to dancing ease, and so Ed and Roy resembled nothing more than some kind of bizarre, two-headed chimera, possibly containing goat, lurching around the dance floor. Much to the displeasure of the colonel, who liked his subordinates to believe that nothing was outside of his immediate expertise. 

"Damn it, Fullmetal, it's not that complicated! You're making me look like a complete idiot! If you don't get it together, I will personally ensure that you never get another mission more important than walking the lieutenant's dog! And furthermaaaaAAAAH!" The colonel screamed as Ed lurched into him, stepping hard on his foot. With his left foot. The one made of very hard, very heavy metal. He couldn't help it; he lost his balance, and two went down in a tangle of limbs.

"Sorry, bastard," gasped Ed, "But it's your own damn fault. Why didn't you dodge me?" It suddenly occurred to him that the two of them were laying on the ground in a very awkward position. He scrambled to get up, only to pause, eyes widening, at the unexpected feeling of a hand brushing against him. Rather lower than the small of his back. There wasn't thought involved; Ed simply pulled back his arm and punched Mustang in the face as hard as he could. And then all hell broke loose.

It was sometime later that Colonel Mustang returned to office, limping slightly, one eye swollen and bruised, shirt spotted with blood. His underlings knew better than to ask what had happened; the expression his face clearly signaled "anyone who tries to talk to me will find out first hand what it feels like to spontaneously combust." The dark-haired officer went into his office and slammed the door behind him before collapsing into his chair. Then he just sat there, staring at his hand as he opened and closed it. He tried to pretend that he was just working out the soreness – between Ed, who didn't seem to know how hard it was acceptable to squeeze someone's hand when one's arm is made of automail, and the punches he had managed to get in, it did hurt like hell – but he knew that was a lie. He refused to acknowledge that what he was really thinking of was how much he longed to run his fingers through long, silky hair, hair like spun gold, hair that mirrored fiery, angry, hawk-like golden eyes. Some things, he supposed, are better left to the realm of dreams.


	2. Moshi Mo, Moshi Mo

**A/N: First of all, many, many thanks to the following people: Amy, Lee, Rinagurl13, shadow-wind auror, Icy Sleepwalker, LoOkYiTsSpAm, BakakojoDragon, Queen Dreamer, and Eithne-Crawford, all of whom were nice enough to either review, put me on their favs list, or put me on their alert list, and some of whom are responsible for me deciding to carry my cute little oneshot further (although if you've read Heart of Steel you know my Calc teacher (and grade) aren't happy about the fact that I keep getting attacked by plot bunnies during his class). Thank you for the support and inspiration! It is great to know that people are actually enjoying what I write, rather than recoiling from the screen in horror. You are officially awesome people, and will all receive a stay of furby-related execution when I take over the world. Much thanking also to hanjuuluver, who not only puts up with my random babbling when I have ODed on Penguins (greatest thing ever created ever), but wrote ads for my fics AND threats for people who won't review into her fics. I feel so loved - not every friend will threaten people for you. Anyway, here is the next chapter. As warned, this fic will from here on out contain sappiness and yaoiness-it was meant to be a love story, after all. You've been warned! Hopefully I have still managed to include the expected amount of random weirdness as well. Enjoy and review!**

**Disclaimer: If I owned FMA, I would not have had to spend 20 bucks (!) (a total rip-off but worth it) for the Edo-kun wall hanging I have in my room. But it was so worth it.**

**Chapter Two: Moshi Mo, Moshi Mo (And If, And If)**

In a tiny, cramped, military-issue dorm room, a diminutive alchemist laughed and rubbed the back of his head.

"C'mon, Al, this is impossible, I'll never be able to get this down!" Ed declared. "It's hopeless, why even bother?"

"I know you'll get it Nii-san, you just have to practice some more. Let's try it just one more time, okay?"

Ed sighed. It was completely unfair that a seven-foot suit of armor could be more graceful than him – it was simply embarrassing, humiliating, and, tragically, true. Al was frequently heard to complain that his older brother was utterly lacking in any sort of natural grace; weeks of dance lessons and hours of extra practice kept him from crippling Mustang, but not much else. And yes, the colonel was still his partner. After the fiasco of the first lesson, the instructor, looking much the worse for wear, decided that Ed and Mustang were both too dangerous to be paired with anyone else, and made them permanent dance partners. That, or he had a sadistic streak and wanted to punish them for the disruption, which was what Ed was inclined to believe. Six weeks of having to dance with that psychotic freak was cruel and unusual torture, in Ed's opinion. Although…

"Nii-san, you're not paying attention again! Honestly, how do you expect to learn this if you keep drifting off? Now watch me, or else," Al tried to sound menacing, and failed miserably. But Ed did direct his mind back to his brother and the steps he was demonstrating. After all, he was going to have to perform them. In front of people. Tomorrow.

"Damn that bastard. Who does he think he is, volunteering us to perform at the end-of-session demonstration? Ohh, look at me, I'm Colonel Mustang, everything I do is perfect, so I can make everyone else feel inferior, and steal their girlfriends, and call them super-short mini-chibis small enough to use for a footrest," Ed growled.

"Why do you let Mustang get to you so much, Nii-san?" Al asked.

"Because he's a jerk," Ed explained, "A completely unbearable cesspit of arrogance and obnoxiousness. He ought to be thrown out of the gene pool. Or at least have his mouth permanently covered in duct tape so he can't make fun of me anymore!"

"I don't know," said Al. "I think you both kind of enjoy fighting each other."

"Did being put into that suit of armor do weird things to your brain, Al? That's the craziest thing I've ever heard!" Ed exclaimed.

"Just think about it, Nii-san. Maybe fighting with you is Roy's way of showing he respects you…or even likes you…because you won't give in to him like most people. Now. Focus. Dancing."

* * *

Hours later, Ed collapsed into bed, too exhausted to breathe. Al had kept him practicing until long after midnight before he had pronounced his dancing "passable" and let him go to sleep. Beautiful, wonderful sleep, Ed thought fondly. He saw it so rarely. But just as he drifted off, his mind, his evil, evil mind, pulled up the conversation he had had with Al earlier in the evening. Not that he took it seriously. I mean, come on. He and Mustang hated each other; that was an immutable fact of life. It was even less shakable than the Law of Equivalent Exchange. But…There was always a but. Why did it always feel like Roy was speaking in code when he fought with him? Why did it feel like everything he said meant something else? Ed groaned out loud. What the hell was his problem? Why did everything have to be so _complicated_? Why was he asking himself so many rhetorical questions? Maybe because he didn't want to think about the answers, about where this line of questioning would eventually lead? At least it would be over tomorrow. One more dance, and then never, ever again would he get that close to the colonel. Ever. In fact, he'd try to get as many missions as possible as far from Central as possible, so he'd only even see Mustang once or twice a year. "_And would that really make you happy_?" asked a traitorous voice in his head, "_Do you really want these lessons to be over so badly?" _Unwittingly, a picture rose in his mind; dark eyes filled with fire, boring into his own as they faced each other on the dance floor, reading his mind. He saw long, graceful fingers entwined with his own, a hand lightly touching his back as they danced. He saw dark hair that he longed to touch, to run his fingers through…no, no, NO!

This was ridiculous, absurd, ludicrous. Ed wasn't sure about a lot of things (not that he'd ever admit it) but one thing he was certain of was that he DID NOT LIKE THE COLONEL. He…respected him, perhaps. Yeah, that was it. Mustang was a good opponent; he was a challenge, and Ed hated it when things went too easy. He had to be on his guard with the colonel, or risk getting set alight. Ed's mind-in-the-gutter started producing images of a relationship with Mustang – fighting for dominance, neither one willing to give in, so that neither of them was eclipsed by the other – but he violently jerked it back to reality. Or at least the semi-reality of trying to define exactly how he felt about the colonel so he could be sure it wasn't…anything. Because to feel anything for the colonel, he thought, was sure to end in disaster and misery. So why else did he respect Mustang, Ed wondered. Was it because Mustang understood him? When he looked into the colonel's eyes, he saw grief, guilt, ghosts from the past. The same thing he saw when he looked into the mirror. He had never had to explain himself to Mustang; he understood what it was like to have sins to atone for. It was…easier to be around him; he knew better than to offer Ed sympathy, or pity, or help, because he wouldn't accept them either. Ed wondered suddenly if that was another hidden motive in their fights – giving Ed anger to distract him from guilt and grief and self-pity. In his own way, perhaps he intended it as kindness…or maybe the moon was made of curdled milk and cream puffs. Ed snorted; Mustang being kind was an even sillier idea than Mustang liking him. But…But if…if Mustang did…it couldn't happen. It wasn't possible. Not in this or any other world, ever at all. But. Ed's mind raced through a thousand memories – moments, glances, and conversations – and realized with a jolt that Mustang was the only person who knew him as he was, not as how he needed to be. The only person who could see beneath his façade, see the heart he kept safely hidden there. He was open around Mustang as he was around no one else. With this insight came a new epiphany, and tears swiftly poured down his face as his narrow shoulders shook with silent sobs. Edward Elric could no longer deny it, hard as it was to admit; he was inexorably, inescapably, impossibly in love.

**A/N: Well? What did you think? Sigh- I don't know why I bother. No one reads these (well, I do...and hanjuuluver does...but I'm pretty sure we're the only ones). But I wanted to remind you to review, and to tell you that the title for this chapter comes from the lyrics of 3rd FMA opening theme, Undo (Hanjuuluver's favorite, and understandably so; it's great). Not that you care. I just wanted to tell you.**


	3. Mono no Aware: Are We Moving?

**A/N:** (WARNING: This author's note may contain pointless, rambling stories and wild pornographic yaoi sex scenes. Okay probably not the second one, unless my yaoi-crazy alter ego goes psycho and takes over my computer). Pointless story Number One: I am going to burn in hell, and it's all because of FMA. Explanation: I am in a bell choir at hanjuuluver's church; I don't actually attend the church (not my kind of thing), but for some reason they expect us to perform (crazy, I know), which of course involves going to church. So last Sunday the two of us were there, and it was the middle of the service, and Bratja (the cool Russian song from FMA) just popped into my head for no apparent reason. But when I whispered that to hanjuuluver, for some reason she heard "bratwurst," the result of which was that we had a hysterical giggling fit which was both loud and extremely noticeable, and several people gave us death glares. And if that weren't bad enough, I set us off again during the hymn - come on, how could I help but notice that "Shine, Jesus, Shine" sounds an awful lot like an EdRoy love song - I mean, it has the lines "you set my heart on fire!" So yeah, I'm going to hell.

Pointless story Number Two: why me plus Chaucer party equals bad. We had a Chaucer party in English on Wednesday. This involved a)lots of people dressing up like Canterbury Tales characters; b)everyone getting to stand up in front of the class and recite random lines from Chaucer about sex and beer and debauchery; and c) tons of sugar. And I do mean tons - cookies, brownies, cupcakes, donuts, scones - the teacher even let two guys ditch and leave campus to buy us more soda. It was awesome - however, by the end of the class, I was literally vibrating, I was so incredibly hyper. And then I get to my next class and we are WRITING POETRY! Jane Austen Girl, who was also at the party and incredibly hyper, went on a scary rhyming rampage, and I just got weird. I wrote a poem about someone stealing my hat, and one about trashy romance novels, and an Ode to Yaoi, which I want to present here so you can see the dangers of ever giving me sugar.

**Ode to Yaoi**

Yaoi

Ignominious, perplexing

Obsesses, transforms, perverts

BL can be kawaii

Shonen-ai

I have problems!!!!!!!

Now that that's over and I have scared off virtually everyone in a ten-mile radius, the real stuff: thank you to everyone who has been reading my first two chapters, and all the people who said wonderful nice things about me in their reviews. I read every single one, and feedback is always appreciated - especially when it's as supportive as this has been! Thank you! And now for the yaoi goodness.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own FMA as of yet, however, I have been working hard on Hiromu Arakawa, and I think she is dangerously close to leaving it to me in her will. Now I just have to up the arsenic doses in her coffee, and it will be mine, all mine!!!

**Chapter 3: Mono no Aware – Are We Moving?**

The two alchemists bowed to thunderous applause. Well, perhaps not thunderous; there were only about 40 people in the room. However, they were _military_ people, which meant that they responded with thunderous applause to _everything_, even a well-done shot to the head. They were easily impressed. But Ed still basked in the warm glow of fame as he let the tails of his dress uniform sweep out behind him. He had every right to be proud; he had not stumbled or staggered even once, he hadn't tripped his partner, he hadn't humiliated himself at all. He hadn't even allowed his face to show a glimmer of the pain he felt standing this close to Mustang. It wasn't easy; with every step, he was acutely aware of Mustang's hand on his back, of the closeness of his body, of his breath on Ed's face. He had dropped Mustang's hand the instant the music ended, as though it were covered in insects or sticky purple goo. He hadn't expected it to be this hard to see him, to be near him, to touch him, but it was. Whatever his own feelings might have been, he knew Mustang was in love with Riza, if he was capable of loving anyone at all. There was not a chance in hell that he would humiliate himself by letting the Bastard Colonel get even a hint of his feelings, but damn, it was hard, and he breathed a sigh of relief when the music faded and he could step away. Ed allowed himself to be swept up in the tide of an enthusiastic audience, carrying him far away from the colonel. A group including his brother, Hawkeye, Havoc and the other Mustangites came up to shake his hand and congratulate him on a job well done; the hours of practice he had put in were a badly kept secret around the office. Suddenly someone shouted "Drinks, drinks!" and Ed found himself being dragged by the arm to the nearest bar. Out of the corner of his eye he automatically searched for Mustang; just as he left the room, he saw him for a second standing still at the back of the shouting group. He was clearly looking for someone, but Ed didn't get the chance to see if he found them.

* * *

After two hours, Ed decided that he hated bars. He despised the swirls of cigarette smoke that choked the air, especially around Havoc. He loathed the shouting, yelling, singing, slamming things, and horrible music, all of which gave him a headache. He really detested drunk military personnel, which he was surrounded by. And most of all he hated that every few minutes, someone would move and he would get a glimpse of Mustang, who was sitting across the bar with Hughes and a few men from their class. He couldn't even drown himself in alcohol to forget about it; the bartender was conscientious enough not to serve a minor, even if Mustang's colleagues weren't. It seemed that not five minutes could pass without someone attempting to order him a drink, "just to cheer him up a little, Johnnie, we don't need a drunk midget," but he had only managed to get a few swigs of the first beer before it was snatched out of his hands, and the bartender had watched him like a hawk after that.. He had just stood up to find his coat and leave before he died of boredom when a slightly slurred shout forced him to turn his head. 

"Hey Fullmetal! You've (hic) been looking like our own (hic) tiny storm cloud all night! You know what would cheer (hic) you up?"

"Killing you, Havoc?" This did not bode well. A drunk Havoc was a Havoc with ideas, and a Havoc with ideas meant terrible, terrible things.

"Naaah (hic). You (hic) should get up and _danshe_!! C'mon, Fullmetal, I (hic) love this song!" As if to prove his point, he began singing along, loudly and rather badly.

Ed didn't stand a chance. A cheer went up from the crowd at the suggestion of being further entertained by the Colonel and Fullmetal; before Ed could make his unseen escape out the door, he was shoved roughly into the middle of a widening clearing in the crowd, at the center of which was a very startled looking Mustang. At least for a moment; then the familiar mask was back in place, the irritating smirk spread across his lips, and he extended a hand to Ed.

"Shall we dance, Fullmetal? Not that we seem to have much of a choice." Damn him – Ed was sure he had such a deep, smooth, _sexy_ voice on purpose, just to torment him. He probably did it all to spite him – made himself so gorgeous, so intense, so damn perfect – just to torture Ed with what he couldn't have. Well, Ed wouldn't give the colonel the satisfaction of knowing he'd gotten to him.

"I want to get through this as quickly and painlessly as possible, so just keep your hands to yourself, you rabid skirt-chasing excuse for a colonel. Lay a hand on me and you'll wish I'd left you in a pit with Hawkeye and a pile of unfinished paperwork." Ed hissed, as he took the final step that left him only inches away from Mustang. There as no one around them now; it felt to Ed as if he had been left alone in the world with only Mustang. As if from a distance, he heard the first soft notes of a new song. He took a deep breath, and prepared to dance.

* * *

From the perspective of the riotous crowd, it was a perfect, elegant dance. The two Alchemists moved together in flawless rhythm across the floor of the bar; Mustang led Ed effortlessly as they stepped, swirled, and spun. Closer to the dancers, however, one could see an entirely different sort of dance being performed; a dance of war. 

"You're acting odd even for you, Fullmetal. Perhaps all the falling you've done lately shook loose what was left of your brain?" Roy muttered as he executed a difficult step.

"Shut up, Bastard! I'm just pissed because I thought this afternoon was the last time I'd have to dance with your pathetic ass."

"So you're that disappointed that our time together is over? Fullmetal, I'm touched." There ought to be a law against being that sarcastic, Ed thought angrily. The colonel was just trying to push his buttons, he knew that, but somehow he couldn't keep himself from rising to the bait.

"I'll miss you like I'd miss a swarm of cockroaches in my bed, Colonel! I thought I would never have to put up with touching you again, that's all!" He knew he was losing his temper; he kept getting louder and louder, but he couldn't stop himself.

"Afraid of cooties, o miniscule one? Isn't that a bit…small minded…of you?"

"I am not afraid of cooties, you son of a sex-crazed baboon! And if you don't shut up this second, I will personally cut out your heart with a spoon and feed it to you on a plate!!!"

"But wait a second, I know you can't be afraid of cooties, you have that little blond minx you lead around on a string. What was her name, Winry? She was kind of cute, I bet she'd look great in a mini-skirt. I should call her sometime; I'm sure she's ready for a man she can…look up to."

"You damn, blasted, spiteful, evil spawn of hell!!!!! I hate you, you perverted freak! I would slit my wrists right now if I wasn't sure you'd follow me to the afterlife just to torture me, and if you don't shut the hell up now I swear, I swear I will shut you up so thoroughly you never open your mouth ever again!" A part of Ed stared in horror at this; there was edge of desperation and fury that he had never heard in his voice before. He realized that he had lost his temper entirely; his words were completely out of his control now.

Mustang was baffled by this reaction; he was trying to annoy the midget, but Ed was getting ridiculously mad. It was idiotic and infuriating – he wasn't supposed to take it this seriously! He almost yelled as he said "What is your problem, Fullmetal?! Why are you getting so angry? What the _hell_ is _wrong_ with you?!"

"I LOVE YOU, YOU DAMN BASTARD!" He couldn't, he could not have just said that. He could not have just shouted that at the top of his lungs. Mustang could not have frozen in mid-step, eyes wide with a horrible, heart-breaking look of shock. It just could not be.

But it was. And Ed, furious, humiliated, despairing, violently flung Mustang's hands off him and jerkily stepped back away from him.

The words he threw at Mustang were harsh, accusatory, and absolutely not choked out around a lump of tears in his throat.

"There, are you happy now, you bastard? There you have it, my deep, dark secret. You know everything about me, right? And now you know…so go ahead and laugh…and call me…and…" He could no longer hide the hot tears that streamed down his face, the gasping sobs that cut off his words, and he bowed his head, eyes closed tightly, shaking and expecting at any moment to hear Mustang's taunting voice, or feel the first blow of a fist.

"Ed…" said Mustang slowly.

He didn't even look up; he knew it was obvious how hard he was crying, but he couldn't stand to look Mustang in the face. "Are you happy to see me humiliated, bastard?" he asked bitterly. "Whatever you're going to do to me, I don't care, just get it over…"

His words were cut off abruptly, as Mustang crossed in one step the thousand miles that seemed to stretch between them, grabbed Ed by the shoulders, and kissed him deeply.

* * *

It felt as though the world had ended. That was the only thing Ed could think – it was like standing in the center of an array, all the energy of the universe flowing through him. It was like falling through the Gate into eternity. There was an instant when he was stunned, disbelieving; he almost tried to pull away, thinking it must be some kind of trick. But Roy was still there, his lips still pressed against Ed's, and the blond alchemist, for a brief moment, surrendered. One hand reached up to clasp Roy's tightly, gloved fingers entwined, clinging with all the strength of steel. He felt Roy's other hand cupping his face, tipping it up toward him; Ed finally opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was Roy's dark gaze boring into him. Then he was falling, falling into midnight dark eyes that caught and held him no matter how hard he tried to escape. He was lost in those eyes, and in a wave of sensation that threatened to overwhelm him; the soft heat of Roy's lips on his, the pressure as his tongue invaded his mouth, the firmness of Roy's touch that made it clear nothing could rip him away. Nothing else in the world mattered but kissing Roy for as long as possible; Ed barely even noticed when someone in the bar gave a wolf whistle and everyone else started cheering. Tears were still streaming down his face, but that didn't matter. He knew that eventually, this kiss would come to an end, and the real world would intrude once again, but that didn't matter. For this one moment, the whole world was in this room, was in his arms, and everything was perfect. And that was all that mattered. 

**A/N**: I write too many A/Ns, and they are way too long, but I don't care! Mwahaahaaahaa!! Yay!! Ed and Roy finally kissed! This was actually supposed to be the end, but then eveyone's been writing wanting to know what happens at the ball, and I keep getting attacked by vicious plot bunnies. Plus I realized that I agree with Nike Femme; happily ever after is all well and good, but what happens then? Ed and Roy are both kind of a mess - I have a hard time picturing them having a story-book romance. There needs to be more!! And there will be - promise!

Extra Note: Mono no Aware is the guiding principle behind Japanese art, poetry, etc - basically the Japanese spirit of the aesthetic - and translates loosely as "the ability to be moved by things," particularly those things which are temporary, fleeting, and ephemeral. Thank you Mr Betsch, art history/US history teacher extraordinare, for that!


	4. We Can Just Pretend

**A/N: **Happy Halloween everyone!! I, for one, had an absolutely fantastic Halloween. Hanjuuluver and I did our costumes together, so we went as (just guess) - FMA characters! She was Sloth - her parents made her return the $80 dress, but the $1.50 dress looked pretty good, and we learned that painting on elbow length black gloves with face paint almost sort of works. I got to be Ed (hanjuuluver: cough-because she's short - cough) and my costume turned out great. We spent the whole day at Jane Austen Girl's house introducing her to the wonders of awesome Mexican food (the girl had never heard of a taquito!), and then we all went to the mall to hand out candy to random small children for National Honor Society. Although we weren't at all supervised, and our orders were basically "just walk around randomly and do whatever as long as children get candy" plus we were full of sugar, and the Happy Moogle was there too. She and Jane Austen Girl weren't technically FMA characters, but we managed to make it work - the Happy Moogle was wearing a black cloak, so she was Lust, and Jane Austen Girl was a gypsy, so we made her Noa from the movie. Anyway, we had fun, and we got loud, and weird, and we couldn't stop speaking in British accents, and the mall will never be the same. Now: enjoy the awesome yaoi goodness of EdRoy or face my wrath!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own FMA, but we scared the guy who works in the anime store at the mall (Yay Chibi Metropolis!) so much with our rabid fangirl squealing that I think after five more minutes he would have given it to me just to get me to leave.

**Chapter 4: We Can Just Pretend**

In times of peace, (at least, peace as defined by the standards of a country under rule of Fuhrer Bradley), Central Headquarters shut down at night; generally by 2 o'clock every soldier had long since returned to their home, dorm, or friend's couch. Tonight was no exception; throughout the base, rooms were empty and darkened, completely devoid of life. Except for one: in a small office, all the lights were blazing, a blue coat was slung carelessly over the back of a chair, and Roy Mustang was pacing. Every few minutes he would sink down onto the sofa in front of his desk, and bury his face in his hands despairingly, only to be forced to begin pacing again by a build-up of nervous energy. There was only one thought running through his mind: What had he _done_?

--------------------------------------Flashback alert----------------------------------------

_Whatever he may have been expecting, it wasn't that. Definitely not. He'd run the scenes through his mind a thousand times before; Ed storming into his office, Ed being caught at an awkward moment, Ed being heroically saved from danger by a dashing colonel. All of them ended in the same way: a certain small blond making dramatic confessions of love. In none of them did he merely stand there staring at the boy, too shocked to speak. In his fantasies, Ed never cursed him, or dissolved into stormy tears. He supposed it was the tears that made him forget all the vows he had made to keep his feelings strictly that, all the rules that expressly forbid anything like this. Ed's sobs were almost painful; he wanted nothing more than to end that look of sorrow, anger and fear. Roy did the only thing he could think of; he stepped forward and kissed the boy on the lips. _

---------------------------------------End of flashback alert---------------------------------

Right. That's what he'd done – in the middle of a crowded bar, with a million people watching, he had kissed Edward Elric. Kissed him in a way that could leave no doubt of the strength of his feelings. It wasn't just the kiss that bothered him, however, or the audience; it was the thought that he, Mustang, cold, collected, manipulative bastard Mustang, had lost control. He hated it; from the second he found Ed in his arms, Ed's lips against his, he knew he'd made a mistake, but he was powerless to step back, to let go. That loss of control, that inability to know what he was doing or what he might do next, terrified him beyond belief. Which was why he here, and still wondering: What had he _done_?

-----------------------------------------Flashback alert--------------------------------------------

_He finally pulled out of the kiss, empty lungs protesting, and drew his hand away from Ed's face. He realized that his hands were shaking, but he couldn't understand why – was it love, or fear, or something else entirely? There was a look of fierce joy in Ed's eyes, but it turned to confusion and hurt when Roy stepped away from him. _

"_Ed, I, I…" Roy was wide-eyed, bewildered, almost…frightened? "Goodnight, Edward," he said softly; he raised Ed's hand to his lips, and kissed it lightly, before he turned and walked abruptly out the door. _

----------------------------------End of flashback alert--------------------------------------

So really, he knew what he had done, more or less. He had kissed Ed; he had panicked; he had left him standing there as he ran away; he had come back here to sulk (Roy: I do NOT sulk. I muse moodily, and occasionally grow despondent.) and decide where to go from here.

_'I think I love you, so what am I so afraid of?'_ (1)

A few weeks ago, Havoc had brought his new radio into the office. That song had been the only one Roy heard before Riza ushered him back into his office with a stack of paperwork; it stuck in his head for days, driving him absolutely crazy, before he finally managed to dislodge it by listening to Fuery hum the Coconut song incessantly. Now, the words played through his mind again, but rather than seeming inanely cheerful and annoying, they took on a bitter, mocking tone.

'_I think I love you…'_ But it was far more than that. Roy was more certain he was in love with Ed than he'd been of anything in his life. He couldn't remember a time when he wasn't in love with the chibi alchemist, although such a time must have existed. Or maybe he'd loved Ed since the day he was born, and had only had to wait until he could see it. He honestly didn't know when he'd first realized that he loved the blond boy. He had known the day he and Ed had fought each other, and cleaned the parade ground afterward, and he had allowed Ed to see some of the pain he hid under cockiness and self-assurance. He had known when someone casually mentioned the Elrics going into Lab 5, and he dropped the glass he was holding, because he hadn't known how close the two had come to dying. And when Ed, hurt, asked him why he didn't send a card to him in the hospital, and he couldn't explain that he didn't trust himself not to write in everything he felt, how dear Ed was to him, how scared he was to lose him. He had known the day he realized that he hated the way women treated him, fawned over him, hated the dates he went on, hated the women he dated, hated how it seemed more like an obligation than a chance at a relationship, hated how much he felt like a hypocrite and a predator. Hated it all, but knew he would continue, because he was empty, and he couldn't have love, and this was the only way he knew to fill it, with pointless, meaningless, emotionless sex, sex with no complications and no consequences, even if it didn't work very well at making him forget. And he'd known he was in love with Ed when he dreamed of him every night, and daydreamed of him every day, and thought about him every moment, unless the real world intruded (as it so often did). For a few minutes in the bar, he'd almost let himself believe his feelings might be reciprocated, that Ed could love him too.

'_So what am I so afraid of?_' Now that he was away from the bar, no longer holding Ed, no longer kissing him, his cynical, world-wise mind was reasserting control over his hopelessly-in-love mind. It wasn't even a matter of the insane difficulties implicit in having a relationship with Ed, daunting though they may have been. Here, back in control, he knew that Ed could not possibly love him. He could rationalize the kiss – Ed had been drunk. He'd tasted alcohol on his breath when they kissed, a faint acrid thread over the boy's sweeter flavor, and he knew Ed had been drunk. Everyone had been drunk; it made sense that Ed had been drinking too. It made sense that he'd drunk too much, gotten caught up in the moment, and done something he didn't mean. It made sense, to the part of Roy's mind that told him it was the only way someone could say they loved him. It was the part of Roy that still remembered what had happened in Ishbal. It was the part of him that had longed to die, and held a gun to his head, and nearly pulled the trigger. It was the part of him that had to become Fuhrer, change the world, as some kind of payment for his sins. The part of him that looked into a mirror, and hated what he saw – a murderer, a man with blood on his hands. This part of Roy knew that he was weak, pathetic, vile, and suspected that everyone else could see it too. It was foolish to think that anyone could ever love him; there was too much blood, too much violence, too much evil in his past. And if was honest with himself, he knew he didn't deserve to be loved. He didn't deserve to be happy. Not while Fuhrer Bradley still told State Alchemists where to go; not while there was a girl in Resembool whose parents died far away; not while fate permitted him to live without paying for what he'd done. It wasn't right for him to be happy, and so he knew that it was impossible for Edward Elric to love him.

There was only one thing to be done. Only one thing he could do.

* * *

By now, the first light of morning was beginning to stream through the spartan curtains in Roy's office. He hadn't noticed time passing; the first clue he had that the day was starting was when Riza appeared in his door, bleary-eyed, uniform uncharacteristically rumpled, and asked him if he had made coffee, since he was the first one here.

"Drink too much, Lieutenant?" he asked blandly. She made a face at him, then winced and put a hand to her head.

"If I ever," she growled, "think about playing Arrogance (2) with Havoc and Breda again, please be merciful, and shoot me in the head."

"I take it you lost, lieutenant?" he said with a pale hint of his normal smirk.

She grinned fiercely at him. "You should see them. I think I drank the least out of anyone at the bar last night – not that that's saying much."

"So how much do you remember?" That was the question he'd been skirting around, the one he really needed to know the answer to.

"Pretty much nothing, sir. I remember Havoc telling me he had a great way to pass the time, someone handing me a shot glass and a bottle of tequila, and then it's basically a blur. Did anything happen, sir?" she questioned, mentally adding a prayer that something hadn't involved any stripping on her part – she'd drunk tequila before, and knew what could happen.

Roy breathed an inward sigh of relief. Hawkeye's ability to hold her liquor was infamous around Central; if she didn't remember anything, then no one would. That…made things easier. "No, nothing happened," he reassured her. He then tried to force his voice to be light and idle, as though he were simply throwing out an afterthought; "By the way, could you send a summons for Edward Elric? I want to see him in my office in half an hour. That's all." She started to walk away, to return to work, and maybe find some aspirin (a lot of aspirin); he was going to let her go, but he decided the opportunity was too perfect to be lost. "Oh, lieutenant," he sang. "Just one more thing."

"Yes, sir?" she replied irritably.

"You really do look great without a top on." Watching her face turn scarlet was almost worth facing down her pistol. Almost.

* * *

He nearly lost his nerve when he heard the sound of the door opening and someone with a distinctive uneven stride made their way to his couch. If he had turned around and actually faced the boy, he probably would have lost it, but he remained resolutely standing, staring out the window. He knew what he had to say; he'd practiced it many times during the night, reciting the words to his reflection and the empty space on the couch.

"Fullmetal," he stated calmly, without a betraying tremor in his voice, "sometimes when one has too much to drink, when one gets caught up in the moment, one does things that they later regret. Things that they don't mean. It is perfectly understandable; it is out of their control." He hesitated, but he knew he had to continue. "Last night…may have been a mistake. I…I mean…everyone was drinking. No one recollects anymore what occurred…what we did." His voice grew soft. "We could…just pretend it never happened. We could forget too. If you don't mind." It wasn't really a question, and he wasn't really expecting an answer.

"Fine," said Ed stiffly. "If that's what you want, _colonel_. It never happened." Mustang heard him stand, heard him step slowly and heavily to the door, heard the door be flung open and violently slammed shut.

If Ed had been the sort of person who turns back, he would have seen Mustang drop wearily into his chair and bury his head in his arms. He would have seen the single teardrop running down the pale cheek onto the blue-clad forearm, a negligible concession to the grief he refused to express. But of course, Ed was not the sort of person who turns back.

* * *

**Notes**:

1)This the first two lines of the chorus to the song "I Think I Love You" by the Partridge family. For the most part, I find this song incredibly annoying, but there is a very sweet EdRoy AMV on Youtube using it, so I had to include it. I love Youtube!

2)Arrogance is a drinking game in which a person pours as much alcohol into a bottle, bowl, etc, as they want, then guesses on the outcome of a coin toss. If they guess wrong, they have to drink the contents of the bottle, bowl, etc, including all the alcohol put in by other people who guessed right. Here is how little life I have: I didn't actually know the names of _any_ drinking games, so I went on Wikipedia and _looked it up_. Which meant I had to do some quick explaining when my father walked in and found me researching drinking games on the computer.

**A/N:** I am so mean!! I feel awful for breaking Ed and Roy apart immediately after I brought them together. But it had to be done. Now for the threat of violence and yaoi deprivation: I am so wonderfully happy, my story has finally broken 1000 hits! And I have many awesome reviews - so a bazillion xiexies to those who reviewed this chapter, you are hen hao! (I am in a "showing off my pathetic Chinese speaking abilities" mood). But I am a review whore, and I want more! Ten reviews for this chapter, or you don't get to find out what Ed does - and do you really think he's just going to sit back and accept this kind of treatment? Come on - he's Ed!


	5. And How Do I Make Amends?

**A/N: **Is it just me, or are my author's notes insanely, ludicrously long? Clearly I have far too much to say. And yet I keep talking! We are having a staying-up-all-night-and-watching-the-English-dub-of-the-FMA-movie-because-even-though-subs-are-better-we-miss-Edo-kun's-voice-party! We being me, hanjuuluver, Happy Moogle Mustang (there is some kind of explanation, but you reeeeally don't want to know) and Jane Austen Girl, whom we will convert to FMA yaoi fangirlhood or die trying. It will be fun, and there will be Hughes, and squealing, and Chinese food, so I am happy! And there will be Chibi Mustang! I can't believe I went onto Amazon and bought an Elric Brothers T-shirt and an FMA keychain. I wore the shirt to school yesterday (even though it's out of dress code, but I didn't get written up, so there). All my friends think it's very odd that I would spend 6 dollars on a keychain-except for my FMA obsessed friends, who are just dying for it to come in. And now it has! Well, enough random babbling. Now: mucho arigato to all my wonderful reading and reviewing fans out there! This fic has now officially passed 1500 hits, and I am just ecstatic! And the threat of non-updatedness worked very well, as I got about 15 reviews for the last chapter. So I will reiterate: reviews equals happy NinjaSquirls and greater likelihood of more yaoi goodness. Lack of reviews equals sad NinjaSquirls and threats of pain, death and destruction. Don't make me sic my psychotic Government teacher on you! Or my homicidal yaoi muse (hanjuuluver and I have decided our psychotic muses must be communicating telepathically and it scares us). To those of you have been so good about reviewing (shadow-wind-auror, Rinagurl13, and anmbcuconnfan, just to name a few), I am bowing in an awed and loving fashion, and my Chinese-speaking alter ego is hitting me with a stick and saying "Don't bow! Only heathen Japanese bow! You want to look Japanese?" To anyone who is offended by this, I spent the summer studying in China, and they reeeally hate the Japanese, and are quite open about it. Which makes me sad, because I love things from Japan… like FMA!

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Fullmetal, and it haunts me every day. But I do own Chibi Mustang, so everything's okay! Yeah, that is just weird.

**Chapter 5: And How Do I Make Amends?**

Some things, Alphonse Elric thought wryly, never change. For him, the river had always been a safe haven; every fight he had with his brother ended with him on the bank of the river, looking into the water. His brother was the same way; whenever Ed was angry, hurt, lonely, or just needed to think, Al knew he would be found sitting in the branches of a tree. Generally, the higher he climbed, the more he wanted to escape a bad situation, which was why Al was concerned now – his brother was so high up, he could barely see him. And he had to admit, it was awkward talking up to Ed, instead of the other way around.

"Please, Nii-san, come down! You're going to fall and hurt yourself and Winry will kill me!" Leaves rustled above his head, and he heard a muffled voice, saying either "I don' wanna" or something much more rude.

"Well, at least tell me what happened! Does it have something to do with what happened last night?" Al felt ridiculous. He'd been standing out here for half an hour, ever since some officer had come into the mess hall talking about a crazy guy up in a tree. He knew it must look quite odd, a giant suit of armor standing in the middle of the grounds yelling at a tree, but Ed clearly needed him, so embarrassment was irrelevant.

"Just talk to me, Nii-san! You know it will help you to talk about it!" At last, a real response. He heard the thump of Ed heaving himself off his perch and onto a lower bough; one booted foot now swung at Al's shoulder, and he could see Ed's face. He was shocked at the sight; Ed's eyes were red and swollen, and his face was pale and streaked with tears. He had obviously been crying.

"Nii-san! Why…were you…tell me. Now."

Ed's voice was low and dull. "It doesn't matter, Al. He's just a bastard, I don't know why I ever thought different. He's just a bastard, that's all."

Al kept his tone even as he asked, "What did he do to you? What did he _say_?"

"He didn't do anything. He made it very clear that he didn't do anything, and that he wasn't going to do anything, and he said," Ed's voice broke, "that last night was a _mistake_. He said he was _drunk_. He said we could pretend it never happened!" He spat the words like poison. "I poured my heart out in front of him, and he let me think he felt the same way I did, and now he just wants to take it back! He acted like I'm just another of his little fangirls with a crush, like he could just dismiss me without a second thought. Like I don't even _matter_! I hate him. I hope he burns in hell, and I hope I get to watch."

Alphonse recognized the look in his brother's eyes. It said he was wounded. It said he was humiliated. It said he was well and truly pissed. Most importantly, it said he was going to do something stupid and rash, and he was going to ask Al to help. Over the years, Al had gotten pretty good at resisting him; he was less temperamental, less reactionary – and he had a body made of metal to remind him of the consequences of going along blindly with Ed. But anyone who knew the two boys knew that one thing, quite possibly the only thing, that was guaranteed to make Al lose his temper was for someone to hurt his brother. At the moment, he was so livid he could barely see straight; he wanted to find Mustang, tie him down, turn all his office furniture into giant bloodsucking insects, and then stand there and watch his agony. He wanted to make Mustang pay in blood for every tear Ed had shed. The few people who had ever seen it knew the truth – Angry Al was _scary_.

"Nii-san," he said flatly, "Do you want me to hurt him? I will – he has no right to treat you like that."

Ed had a frightening glimmer in his eyes. "No, Al, I already have a plan. I'm going to make Mustang pay, you can be sure of that. Nobody treats the Fullmetal Alchemist like that and lives to tell about it. Now here's what I want to do…"

* * *

(let's assume you can guess we've moved to Roy's office)

Barely a minute after Ed stormed from his office, Roy heard someone pound against his door. Lifting his head from his arms, he shakily swept a sleeve across his face and tried to pull himself into a semblance of together.

"I'm busy," he shouted. "This better be important!"

"Sorry, your high and mightiness," said a cheerful voice, "Do you have any time to spare for a simple Lieutenant Colonel, or are you too busy goofing off and avoiding work? And tormenting the runt of course – I don't know what you said to him, but he just rushed out of here looking like he was about to axe-murder somebody. I definitely wouldn't want to get in his way right now, that's for sure. So, I just stopped by to show off my new pictures of Elysia, can you believe how adorable she is now, just like a tiny fairy, and…_oh_. Roy…" All the cheer fell out of Hughes' voice as he finally turned and saw Roy's face. "What _did_ you say to Ed?" he questioned.

"Please, Hughes, I'm not in the mood for talking right now. Can you just go away and bother someone else for now?" he said wearily.

"Like hell I will, Roy! You should know better than that. You are clearly a mess, and I am going to take you to a bar, you are going to drink, and you are going to tell me why Ed just ran out of here on the warpath and you look like you're about to try and off yourself."

"But -"

"No arguments. You go, or I get out my new compilation album of Elysia with her teddy bear and we spend the next hour analyzing every photograph in minute detail. Your choice."

Mustang, somewhat to his surprise, found himself being dragged out of the room by one arm. He cast an urgent "please help me" glance at Riza as he was hauled past her desk, but Hughes just winked at Roy and told her "Must go, we need to discuss some urgent military business, I'll bring him back later." Then he had swept past her and all hope of salvation. Hughes had a death grip on his arm that even Armstrong could not have escaped, so he merely sighed and resigned himself to being dragged off to whatever place of alcohol serving Hughes had in mind.

* * *

Contrary to popular opinion, Roy Mustang did not really drink all that much. Oh, he might have a casual shot during a conversation, or an occasional beer with his lunch, but he typically saved his serious drinking for when he was alone and majorly depressed. Which was why no one at Central but Hughes knew that Roy was not a mean drunk, or a violent drunk, an obnoxiously loud drunk, a recklessly stupid drunk, or a silly giggly drunk. He was much more the "sobbing and confessing his darkest secrets" type; that was why Hughes had brought him to the bar in the first place. Hughes wasn't head of the Court Martial Department for nothing; he knew how to get a man to tell him what he wanted to know. In Roy's case, interrogation began with, let's see, 3, 4, 5, 7…12… okay, many_, many _shots of whiskeyIt still wasn't easy to get the story out of him – even full of whiskey Mustang was Mustang – but after a significant bit of prodding and probing on Hughes' part, he gave in and told him, well, everything. Every painful detail of what transpired at the bar and in Roy's office. Briefly, Hughes was too stunned to speak; he merely sat there staring at Mustang like he was some unusual variety of butterfly.

"Why?" he finally said in a low voice.

"Why _what_, Hughes? Why did I kiss him? Why do I love him?" Mustang slurred dejectedly.

"Why didn't you tell me, damnit! I'm your friend, Roy, I could have given you advice, instead of being left trying to clean up the mess you made! Why wouldn't you trust me enough to tell me about something like this? Honestly, if you can't open up to _anyone_ then you're just going to self-destruct, and you know it!" His voice dropped from an irritated bark to a more reassuring level, "Roy, I've been in love too, you know. I know what you're going through. I can _help_ you. Just let me, alright?"

It took a second for this to penetrate Mustang's alcohol-clouded brain, but when it did, he slowly nodded his assent. "Fine. What do you think?"

"As your friend," Hughes stated flatly, "I think that you are a damn moron!"

"Huh?"

"What in hell did you think you were doing, you drunken idiot? The object of your heart's desire declared he loved you, and you just let him walk away? Told him to pretend it never happened? Did someone slip stupid pills in your drink last night?"

Mustang glared at him. "I was trying to show him I understood he'd made a mistake. I was trying to let him out of it gracefully. I was doing him a _favor_."

"A favor, huh? You know, when I saw him outside your office, he looked like someone had just slapped him in the face. He was on the verge of hysterics, and he punched a wall so hard it almost crumbled. Does that sound like someone who thought he was being done a favor? Does it sound like someone who was glad he had a chance to take it back?"

"No, but…"

"No buts, Roy. Shut up. Did it _ever_ occur to you that maybe, just maybe, Ed actually cares about you? Possibly even loves you? Did you ever stop to think that he might have meant it when kissed you? Well?"

Mustang's head sunk down until it was buried in his arms. The muffled words emerged slowly and incoherently. "No…he was drunk last night…I tasted it…he was just drunk, wasn't thinking straight…didn't mean it"

"You're drunk now. Does that mean what you told me about loving Ed wasn't true? Drinking lowers your inhibitions, stupid; it doesn't make you lie."

"No, but…"

"But what? Why are you so convinced he doesn't love you when he told you himself that he did?"

He raised his head with a jerk, and his words emerged as a disgusted sneer. "He can't love me. It's just impossible. What kind of person could feel that way about me, Hughes? I'm pathetic, I'm scum, I'm a despicable murderer who can't even admit to his sins. At least Edward is trying to make amends to his brother; I just hide my guilt and hope that nobody looks too closely into my past. I don't deserve to walk this earth with decent people, let alone be with someone who loves me."

Hughes closed his eyes and sighed deeply. Damn. So that was the problem. This wouldn't be easy. He took a slow breath and prayed Mustang wouldn't set him on fire for this.

"Now you listen to me, Roy, because I'm only going to say this once. What you did in Ishbal was terrible, but you were young, and stupid, and you had orders, and it was _ten _damn_ years _ago. It does not make you evil and it does not make you a murderer, and at some point, you have to forgive yourself for what happened! You have to start living your life again, instead of spending all your time blaming yourself and wallowing in the past. It's a betrayal of the memories of those who died so that you could live, damnit, so listen to me!" Hughes leaned forward, seizing Mustang's collar and shaking him vigorously. "You are not pathetic, you are not despicable, and you are not scum! You are…you are kind-hearted, and sensitive, and loyal, and brave and noble and self-sacrificing and handsome and _strong_…"

The black-haired man blinked dazedly. "Hughes, are you hitting on me?" His mind flashed back to another night, back during basic training, when he and Hughes had both been drinking heavily, and the traumatized expressions on their comrades' faces when they had found the two in the morning…

"I am not hitting on you, Roy. I'm happily married, remember? I am trying," he leaned forward, so his mouth was only inches from Roy's face, "to tell you that you are a good person. It is not impossible for Ed to love you. You deserve to be happy just as much as anyone, so just let it happen. For once, just let yourself have something you want this damn much. You are not unworthy." And tilted forward, a little farther, so that his lips softly touched Roy's forehead.

"Now promise me," he said sternly, "that you will try to talk to Ed again – really talk, this time – when you get back to work in the morning."

"Promise," Roy slurred slowly. Hughes could see that he was wavering in his seat, and his eyes kept drooping shut despite his best efforts to appear alert.

"Yeah, right," he muttered. "I'll be sure to leave you a note to remind you tomorrow. Barman!" the last words shouted to the man wiping off the counter at the other end of the bar, "Can you help me get him outside? I think he's had a few many," with a small laugh over the stupidity of friends who started drinking at 10:00, "and I'm going to drive him home to sleep it off."

"No problem," answered the grimy man; with his help, Hughes managed to maneuver the intoxicated colonel out the door and arrange him sprawled out on the back seat of his car.

'_How much of this is he actually going to remember tomorrow?_' Hughes wondered, as he turned the key in the ignition.

* * *

Thud. "Damnit!" "Uggghhhh…" There had to be a reason. There had to be some sort of explanation, thought Mustang, for why he was lying on the floor next to his bed, fully dressed, feeling like he was about to die. Actually, dying would be nice. At least then his head probably wouldn't hurt so much, and the room would probably stop spinning in that sickening way. As far as he knew, alcohol was the only thing that could do this, so by process of elimination, he must be hung over. But when had he been drinking…? Groaning, he pushed himself to his feet, swayed briefly, and staggered into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee, greatest substance known to man. As he sat at the table, feeling the warm liquid flow through him, he wracked his brain for memories of the previous night. Then he reached into his pocket to feel for his wallet; when he pulled his hand out, a folded piece of paper fluttered to the ground. _'What?_' He bent to pick it up. Unfolded, it revealed itself to be covered in handwriting that was characteristically Hughes; no one else had that combination of over-exuberance and precision. Puzzled, he read it out loud to himself:

"_Roy – sorry about last night, I got you kind of trashed at the bar. Don't worry, though, I put the tab on my business account, so you don't have to pay for it. I made sure you got home okay, and we didn't get into any trouble – not even what I know you're thinking of! Now the important part. I don't know how much you remember of our conversation, so I'll remind you – you told me everything about you and Ed, and I do mean everything. You're not weaseling out of our agreement just by pretending to have blacked it out; you said you would try to talk to him again, and I expect you to do it. Don't forget, I still have those pictures of Elysia. Good luck, and remember that some people love you, even though you're an idiot._

_Hughes"_

Reading the letter brought all the events of the day before crashing back into place in Roy's memory: talking to Ed; getting sloshed with Hughes; confessing his sordid love story; Hughes' reassuring talk…and less assuring kiss. He rose, ran a hand through his coal-black hair to smooth it, and tried to brush the worst wrinkles from his uniform. He wished he had time to take a shower – he felt like he'd been rolling in a mud puddle – but he had to get to work. '_And you have to talk to Ed,'_ a suspiciously Hughes-like inner voice reminded him. One thing at a time…

* * *

As he walked down the hallway approaching his office, Roy silently tried out various ways to open the conversation he was going to have to have with Ed. 'Hughes threatened me to talk to you,' no, that would get him killed… 'I was only joking yesterday, you know that, right?' no, that was stupid… 'I wanted to tell you I love you…' absolutely _not_. Just outside the door he stopped; he could hear a frantic murmur of conversation on the other side.

"Hurry, move it, he'll be here any second!"

"I'm trying, I'm trying, don't panic!"

"That one, get that one too…"

'_What on earth could they be talking about? Probably just some office pool or something they don't want to get in trouble for_,' he thought, chuckling gently. He shoved open the door loudly so as to make an obvious entrance, and immediately turned to Hawkeye.

"Good morning, Lieutenant, would you do me the favor of getting the Fullmetal runt down here? I need to have a brief meeting with him today." Something wasn't right here. The way they kept glancing at each other, then throwing nervous looks back at him, was suspicious. And they were all too stiff – especially Havoc, who was trying and failing to look like he was leaning casually against the door of Roy's office.

"Havoc, can you move, please? I want to get into my office and put my coat down." What could he possibly be trying to hide on Roy's _door_? But Havoc just stood there, with that stupid, terrified grin, like he knew he was going to die but didn't dare move.

"Havoc, I'm serious, move! Why are you acting so weird?" He still didn't move. This was starting to piss him off, and he did not have time to put up with everyone acting like morons. Eyes flashing, he strode forward to forcibly remove Havoc from his path. And the man actually resisted him, actually planted his feet and refused to be budged, until Roy leaned against him and shoved hard, so that he stumbled away from the door.

An audible silence fell over the room.

"Sir?" said Hawkeye hesitantly.

A low growl emerged from a face drained of color. "Who…in hell…is responsible for this?"

"We…we don't know, sir. But, but, we asked around, and a few people think…they think they saw Fullmetal leaving early this morning," she continued bravely.

"Is this…the only one?" Her eyes betrayed her moments before the lie; they flicked to Fuery's desk, where he was hastily shoving a box further with his foot.

"How many?"

"Maybe a hundred. They were everywhere, sir. The whole building. We, we were lucky that Fuery and I got here early this morning, we had time to get them down before anyone saw. I think we got them all, sir."

There was nothing to anticipate. No telltale flicker of the eyes, no indicative gesture, nothing; he didn't move, he didn't breath, and then…SNAP. The monstrosity on the door was wreathed in flames, reduced to ash in seconds.

And then SNAP. The box under Fuery's desk ceased to be.

SNAP. Fuery's desk flared into a small inferno.

SNAP. The trash can.

SNAP. The desk chair.

SNAP – BLAM. Hawkeye had drawn one of her dreaded pistols and fired a round into the ceiling.

"Can't let you destroy the office, sir, we'd end up paying for it. Sorry."

He just stood there, mouth opening and closing, speechless with rage. Without saying a word, he turned on his heel, flung open his office door, and slammed it shut behind him hard enough to shake the room.

Silence, once again, echoed.

Steeling herself for the worst, Hawkeye knocked gently on the door. "Sir…do you still want me to call Edward down here?"

The door opened once again, and Mustang's head emerged. "You can tell that, that little BRAT to go to fucking hell! Tell him that if he _ever_ even _speaks_ to me again aside from 'yes, sir' I will _personally_ tell each and every one of his superior officers just exactly how he really lost his arm and leg! Tell him I never want to see his goddamn face again!" And with that, the door slammed shut on a stunned Lieutenant Hawkeye.

* * *

In a corner, one of objects from the box Roy had destroyed lay unnoticed. Its edges were scorched and smoking, but it was still largely legible. It was intended as a poster, at least its size and layout suggested such. In large letters across the top were the words, "ROY MUSTANG: BRAVELY FIGHTING AMESTRIS' MOST DANGEROUS ENEMIES" The picture beneath couldn't possibly be a photograph; the individual must have been a skilled alchemist to make the drawing look like one. It showed Roy Mustang, horror and fear etched across his face, arm outstretched and gloved fingers together in a move everyone in Central knew well. On the other side of the picture, huddled against a wall, was the object of his attack: a skinny, cowering, weeping, screaming, terrified child.**

* * *

**

**A/N:** I am sooo mean! I can't believe I let Ed do that to Roy! But it seemed like something Ed would do, really. So now the question is, can Roy ever possibly forgive him? I sure hope so! And question: is Hughes OOC? hanjuuluver and Happy Moogle Mustang said he was in character when they read the draft, but what do you think? Hughes is hard to write! Unlike drunk Roy, who is just fun. And no, this story will not include much, if any, HughesRoy. I find it cute, but improbable since he does have a wife and daughter whom he loves very much. Although that's not to say nothing _ever_ happened between the two of them (evil smirk). Final message: review, or there will be violence (I like violence! Yay violence!).


	6. Gomen Nasai But I Just Can't Say It

**A/N:** Gomen nasai! This chapter is being posted somewhat late (by my standards, at least, since I've been trying to do a chapter a week). Somehow my teachers got the insane idea that my schoolwork is more important than my fanfiction. But I finally managed to find a few hours to work, so here is Chapter 6! And in the random deranged musings department, our FMA party was a great success. We watched 15 episodes of FMA on DVD, 3 on Youtube, the movie, and an infinite amount of AMVs. We also managed to terrify Happy Moogle's parents beyond belief - us plus tons of caffeine (we had Thai Iced Tea and Penguins!) is disturbing. We were sitting in Moogle's room at three in the morning lighting matches and watching them burn (it made us think of Mustang), and playing some very weird game Jane Austen Girl brought - one of those confessional style games, with questions like "List three words to describe yourself" or "Name one person you have a crush on," which would have been dumb except that instead of ourselves, we were playing as "our" characters from FMA (so I was Ed, Moogle was Mustang, hanjuuluver was Envy, and JA Girl was Al). Mentally deranged, ne? On the positive side, we transmuted Jane Austen Girl into an FMA fangirl (and she agrees with us that Ed and Roy are madly in love). You must check out her fics - she has an unnerving gift for crack! Ed and Roy doing yoga! Read! Finally, thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! You are saints and wonderful people! I love you! And so do all my other personalities! You are kings among men! Keep it up!

**Disclaimer**: I just paid my English teacher for Tess, which we are nearly done with, and Oedipus, which we finished in _September_. If I owned FMA, don't you think I could afford someone to keep track of that stuff for me? Or to take English in my place?

**Chapter 6: Gomen Nasai – But I Just Can't Say It**

Riza Hawkeye considered herself a model soldier. She followed orders, kept her mouth shut, and knew when to pull out her sidearm (which was frequently and often). That was why, when the trembling young private handed her a sheet of paper from the Fuhrer's office, she didn't put a bullet in his head. Or her own, for that matter; she also didn't break down and start screaming over her terminally bad karmacological k'dharma. She _did_ allow herself a brief moment to sigh and wonder how much worse things could get.

It had been a week since what the office occupants referred to as the "Poster Incident," and the Colonel and Fullmetal still weren't speaking.

No one had expected it to go on this long; they had all known the colonel for a long time, and he wasn't the type to hold a grudge. Sure, what Ed had done was awful, but still, it seemed strange. It wasn't like he and the midget hadn't fought before – the battle assessment sprang readily to mind – but somehow this was different. For one thing, the colonel was usually fairly cheerful when he was fighting with Ed, as though he enjoyed getting a rise out of him; this time, however, he was in an almost unnerving bad temper. No one in the office dared to speak to him, or speak around him, or try to pass him in the hallway; it was certain, agonizing death by fire. He spent all his time locked in his office, doing god knows what – the one time Hawkeye had tried to knock on his door to give him some paperwork, she had barely pulled her head back in time to avoid getting hit by a book. She and Havoc had quietly taken on the burden of most of his work; shouted through the door comments that he was acting like a child and had a job to do fell on apparently deaf ears. At night, after he left, she went into his office to look around, and found the wastebasket full to the brim with burned papers. They might have been letters, but it was impossible to tell – the biggest shards only revealed a word or two, and it was always "bastard" or "hate" or "die." She didn't understand it, but he was in bad shape.

And Fullmetal was no better. As the self-appointed temporary head of the office, she had taken it upon herself to go down to his room and try to convince him to apologize to the colonel, but it was a futile effort. Even facing the threat of her handgun, he stubbornly refused to even set foot in the office. He said as far as he was concerned, Mustang had deserved what he got, and the Bastard Colonel could sit in that room and rot for all he cared. He said he wanted to be transferred to a different commanding officer. The forms he had shoved into her hand still sat on the desk; she couldn't find it in herself to pass them through.

No one knew why Fullmetal had done it. He was a hot-tempered little brat, but even for him it was a drastic reaction to a short joke. And it was…it was so _mean_ – Ed was stupid, violent, thoughtless, but not cruel. Not usually. Riza had a hard time believing that this was just another chapter in the very long book of Flame vs. Fullmetal. The colonel must have done _something_ to make the boy that angry, although what exactly it might have been was beyond the cognition of any of them. Personally, Hawkeye felt it was connected to that day after the party, when the colonel had summoned Ed into his office. She knew Havoc and Breda disagreed with her – they had already classified that as "just another insult-laden sarcasm fest between our two idiot alchemists," which certainly wasn't out of the ordinary. They hadn't seen Edward's face as he left. She had, and she was sure it had been far from an ordinary conversation. She sighed to herself. Was it humanly possible for two people to hate each other more than the colonel and Fullmetal?

The nervous squeak of a door brought her mind back to reality – and the piece of paper before her, and the orders that would somehow have to be carried out, regardless of personal feelings.

"Good morning, my lovely flower of a First Lieutenant! And how are you feeling today?"

Of course, it _would_ be Hughes. The man was unbearable on the best of days; she definitely didn't feel up to him _now_.

"Good morning, sir. At the moment, I'm feeling an uncontrollable desire to send all State Alchemists to another planet…and I don't think I'd bother to pack oxygen, either."

It was amazing how the man could switch from completely clueless mode to dead serious mode in a matter of seconds. Did he practice in front of the mirror? "I take it Roy and Ed's fight isn't about to blow over any time soon?"

"Frankly, sir, it's not looking like it's going to blow over, period. After what Edward did…I can understand if the colonel can't bring himself to forgive him."

"Ed must have had a reason for doing what he did, you know. He's not the kind of kid who would do it just to see the colonel squirm. He doesn't have a cruel streak in him."

"I know, Lieutenant Colonel." Hawkeye groaned in frustration. "I just wish I could get him to talk to me! Or to anyone! Why does he think he has to be so damn strong?"

He looked her in the eye and replied, "I don't know. He's always been like that…Ed's the same way, actually. They're both fools – never able to understand that needing other people isn't a sign of weakness or failure. There's just no getting through to him, is there?" And then the big sappy smile flashed and serious Hughes had vanished into whatever depths of personality he had been summoned from. "I have a little better luck with him than you, though – must be all the years I've had putting up with his stupidity. Would you like me to try working on the two of them?"

Normally, this would have given Hawkeye a very bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. His eyes had a scarily overzealous gleam, and the broad grin was almost, if not quite, predatory. She wasn't entirely sure she wanted to turn either alchemist over to him, even if she did want to strangle them both. But there still remained the matter of the paper she held, and much as she hated to admit it, Hughes might have a better shot than she did at talking them into it. And above all other things that made her a good soldier, Riza Hawkeye was a realist. She knew when to admit defeat and hand a job off to someone better qualified.

Besides, she really didn't want to have to deal with it. She liked all her body parts where they were.

"Now that you mention it," she replied slowly, "I just received new orders for Fullmetal and the Colonel from the Fuhrer, and I don't know how to talk them into it. If you would like to try…?"

"Consider it done, my fair lady." He plucked the paper from her outstretched hand, blew her a kiss, and departed, muttering something about finding Ed in the cafeteria.

There. It was officially out of her hands. Hawkeye even allowed a slight smile to pass over her lips as she pictured the expression on Hughes' face when he read the orders on the paper.

_From the Office of Fuhrer King Bradley:_

_One week hence, the Fuhrer will be hosting a diplomatic event attended by the wealthiest citizens and nobility of Amestris and ambassadors from our bordering countries. All State Alchemists are required to attend this event to act as escorts for the foreign diplomats. Alchemists will be notified of the individual they are to be escorting in six days. As a further note, the event will take the form of a Masquerade Ball, so all Alchemists should dress accordingly. Costumes and masks are expected. Should you have difficulty in procuring a costume, one will be provided for you by the Outfitting Department. _

_Fuhrer King Bradley_

* * *

"You know, considering that you can't eat, don't you think it's a little odd that I would find you sitting in the cafeteria?" 

On the mental list of places Ed Elric was most likely to be found at any given moment, the mess hall was right at the top. However, Hughes had been somewhat startled at his good fortune to find, not Ed, but Alphonse Elric sitting at a table in the middle of the crowded room. Persuading the boy to obey orders that would put him in the same room as Mustang would be damnably difficult, but with him _and_ Al conspiring against Ed, it might just be possible. Now all he had to do was convince Al to go along with his murky schemes. With that end in mind, he dropped casually into the seat beside him and offered the aforementioned greeting.

"Good morning, Lieutenant Colonel. I came down with Nii-san for breakfast, but I decided to stay when he left. It's nice to sit and watch everyone, don't you think?"

"Yeah, yeah…So your brother's not here, Al?" Hughes inquired slyly.

"No. He left about fifteen minutes ago to go for a walk. Why, were you looking for him?"

Now for the fun part. "Actually, Al, I was looking for you. I need your help on a little… project of mine. What do you say?"

Al had enough experience to know not to agree to do anything for Hughes without the details clearly spelled out. The last time he had said yes to a request like this, he had ended up as the entertainment for a party's worth of shrieking three-year-olds, and it had taken days to undent his armor. "It depends. What do you have up your sleeve this time, Lieutenant Colonel?"

"Super Secret Unfailable Evil Plot Number 207," he said with a broad grin.

Al was caught up in the excitement now, happily playing along. "And this is a Super Secret Evil Plot for accomplishing what, exactly?"

"For getting your brother and the colonel to make up and admit their undying love for each other, of course!"

A long, long pause, and then…

"No."

Hughes wondered idly if the way Al's voice echoed in his empty chest added substantially to the flat, final, unquestionable tone it held.

"But Al…!"

"No."

"But you have to! They're destined to be together! We have a moral obligation!"

"No."

"But _why_?" He practically begged.

"Who did you think drew the picture on the poster? Nii-san can't draw at all. I don't want to fix them up. I hate the colonel. I won't let you do this."

"But _why_?"

The amazing thing was, even now Al's voice was still soft and gentle. "You don't understand, sir. My brother always tries to protect me. He's even risked his life to save mine. He's sacrificed so much for me…the least I can do is try to protect him as well, when I can. I owe it to him. I can't let him get hurt again by the colonel. If he really loved Nii-san as much as you think, the colonel wouldn't have kissed him and then just dismissed it by saying he'd been drunk. I don't want my brother to be with someone who can reject him so easily."

Hughes couldn't help it. He burst out laughing. "Well, that certainly clears things up! I told Roy he was being an idiot! Wow!" He went off into another torrent of hysterical giggling.

"What are you talking about, sir?" Al asked in confusion.

"Your brother misunderstood him completely! Roy was completely sober that night. He thought _Ed_ was drinking. He figured Ed only said he loved him because he was drunk, so he was trying to let him off the hook."

"What?" said Al, if anything even more confused. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah. He went to pieces as soon as Ed left. I had to take him out and get him loaded to drag the story out of him." He snorted derisively. "Trust Mustang to try and do the noble thing and have it totally backfire on him. _Of course_ Ed would take it that way. Oh, what trouble those two cause for us."

"So Colonel Mustang didn't mean to hurt him?"

"Nope. He's just an idiot. And in love, which is worse."  
" In love? You mean with Nii-san?"

"Heard it from him myself. It's sweet, actually – or it would be if they were speaking to each other. Which is where you and I come in. Think I could get you to reconsider your refusal?"

"Well, this definitely changes things, sir. If it was a mistake… and if the colonel really loves him back…then…"

"Then we need to get them together, since they clearly can't do it on their own." Hughes finished.

"Right. So how does your Secret Plot say we should go about that?"

He scratched the back of his head, embarrassed. "Well, actually, I haven't gotten that far yet. I don't suppose there's any chance that Ed will just…you know…apologize, if you tell him what Roy was really trying to say?"

Al sighed and shook his head. "Even if he believed me, which he wouldn't, his pride wouldn't let him apologize now. I think he knows he went too far with the posters, but he won't admit it. Especially not to the colonel. How about Mustang? Could you convince him to talk to Ed?"

"I did before. I went and got him drunk, and made him promise he would talk things over with Ed and tell him how he really felt. I honestly think he was going to do it…but then he got to work and saw the poster on his door."

"Oh."

"Yeah, so I don't think there's much chance he'll be willing to try it again. It really is up to us." Hughes leaned back in his seat, placing his hands casually in his pockets. His fingertips brushed against a slip of paper he had utterly forgotten about. He sat up with a gasp.

"Of course! I know what to do! It'll be perfect! I'm sure of it!"

"What are you talking about, sir?" questioned Al. It seemed to him that he had to say that a lot when he was around Hughes.

"New orders from the Fuhrer! There's going to be some sort of diplomatic ball next week, and all the State Alchemists are acting as escorts. So Ed and Roy both have to be there! Together!"

A wicked smile spread across Al's face. "So all we have to do is get them there, and arrange it so they have be around each other, and they have to talk, and then…"

"Exactly, Al! But first things first – it's a costume ball. I think we need to do their costumes."

"Costumes?"

"Uh-huh. And we need to do something striking – we want them to really notice each other, even if they can't recognize each other. I can handle Roy's, but if I try to do Ed's too, the colonel might find out about it. Do you think you can do your brother's costume?"

"Yes, sir. I can't sew, but transmuting clothes is pretty easy. It shouldn't be a problem. But what do think they should wear?"

Six hours later, the two were still sitting there. The table had nearly vanished under a heap of coffee cups, empty plates, and papers covered in costume sketches and plans.

"So that's what we're going with?"

"Yeah. I hope this works."

"It had better."

* * *

**A/N**: I love Hughes. Who _doesn't_ love Hughes? It almost killed me when he died in the show - I still can't watch that episode without crying. Which is why in this story, he is alive and always will be. So there! What do you think? Tell me! Cross my heart, next chapter will be the ball! 


	7. Who Was That Masked Man Anyway? Part 1

**A/N: **So so so so sorry! You have no idea what I had to go through to get this chapter up! I actually had it written on Sunday, but I have had no free time whatsoever in which to post it, and then...This is the degree of technological inadequacy I can lay claim to: I broke the internet! Not a joke; somehow I managed to do something horrible to our computer that made it impossible to go online. Which caused me to go into terminal panic meltdown mode, because of course this would happen the week before finals, when I have massive amounts of work due, all requiring the computer in some way. It sucked. A lot! It resulted in the formation of my either 11th or 12th alter ego (I think 12, but when I add them up I can't find one): emo-NinjaSquirls, hereafter known as Hamlet the depressed Danish prince. I don't like being Hamlet! But I took the day off yesterday, which was very good for my sanity, and now Hamlet has been banished back to England. And I can finally get this chapter up! And of course: to all the people who reviewed, you are gods. I built a shrine to you in my room and make virgin sacrifices before it on a daily basis. I love you! And the person who said they would die if I updated: you can live! To all the people who didn't review, you are evil, and I am making potato voodoo dolls so that I can cause you pain across the internet. (Well, no, I feel bad, I do the same thing. I'm just happy you're reading at all!)

**Disclaimer**: If I said that FMA was mine, and that Arakawa snuck into my room one night and stole it from me, would you believe me? No? Didn't think so. (Sigh) But it was worth a shot.

Who Was That Masked Man Anyway? - Part One

* * *

Had anyone else suggested he wear the outrageous costume, they would have found themselves transmuted six ways from next Wednesday. But it hadn't been anyone else; it had been Alphonse, and Ed could not bring himself to say no to his younger brother. How a theoretically expressionless suit of armor could manage to give the world's most incredibly effective puppy-eyes was only one of many, many questions about him that formed the basis of hours of idle office talk. At the moment, however, Ed wasn't thinking about that; he was merely ardently wishing that he were the type of cold-hearted, emotionless bastard on whom Al would have absolutely no effect. At least then he wouldn't be standing in a line with fifty other State Alchemists in the costume, hereafter known as The Costume of Doom. Though he stared resolutely ahead at attention, he could feel everyone's eyes on him. How could they _not_ be staring?

To begin with, there was the leather. Tight, tan leather, rather than his usual black, hugged his body – pants, jacket, belt, everything – and was heavily embellished with straps, buckles, and chains. Over the leather, he was draped in multi-layered, long-sleeved robes, swathes of fabric in every shade of red, orange, and gold that billowed around him every time he took a step. His hair was loose and flowing over his back, but instead of blonde, it was dyed ink-black. The hair dye combined with his face mask, a dramatic concoction of feathers and beads, also in red and gold, to make him unrecognizable. The boots helped too; Al had transmuted the bottoms to make him a full 3 inches taller – still short, but less obviously so. So no one would know who it was they stared at. But they would be staring – especially at Al's final addition to his costume. Ed twitched his shoulders self-consciously, trying to settle them into place, but he was still painfully aware of them resting on his back, secured with leather straps that wrapped around under his arms.

Edward had wings. Huge, golden, feathered, and surprisingly realistic looking wings. Al said he was an Angel of Light. Ed told him that was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard, which was why Al also gave him a sword to wear strapped between his shoulder blades. But the wings stayed despite his vociferous protestations.

Ideally, Ed would have liked to be as inconspicuous as possible at the ball. Actually, in the _ideal_ situation, he would be somewhere most assuredly _elsewhere_, aka reading, hunting for the Philosopher's Stone, even getting in a fight. But since Al had made it abundantly clear that he had no choice whatsoever in attending the Fuhrer's Masked Ball, he would have preferred to spend the evening hiding in the corners, steadfastly ignoring everyone else in the room, and waiting for the apocalypse or the end of the party, whichever came first. He did not want to be the center of attention. He did not want to have every single State Alchemist staring directly at him. He definitely did not want to even permit himself to think about the fact that Mustang was somewhere in the room too, and might even be staring at him, and that they might, over the course of the evening, have to talk to each other.

Ed had the feeling it was going to be a long and unpleasant evening.

* * *

As the clock outside struck eight, the uniformed major general assigned the task of inspecting the fidgeting troops stopped walking back and forth before them and cleared his throat loudly for attention.

"Good evening, everyone; it's nice to see you all remembered that you are dogs of the military and showed up to do your duty, unlike _last_ year (cough – Mustang – cough). Now you all received your individual assignments yesterday, so here's the drill. When the name of the person you are escorting is announced, you will step forward and exit by the door to my right. Your assigned individual will be waiting for you outside; simply take their arm and walk down the staircase into the ballroom. And remember – anyone who embarrasses our nation of Amestris will live to regret it, so look sharp."

The Alchemists snapped him a collective salute before he turned on his heel and walked to the door. A few seconds later, the first name was called, and the first nervous Alchemist detached himself from the group to exit. Ed surreptitiously wiped his sweating palms on his pants, holding himself rigidly straight as though entirely unaware of the whispers running up and down the line concerning the possible identity of the winged alchemist. Any second the name he'd memorized would be called, and he'd have to walk out and face the ballroom. Not to mention an entire evening dancing, and conversing, and _dancing_, with some _girl_ he'd never even met before in his life.

"And announcing the Lady Diane D'Artegnan, Princess of the Drachman Royal Family!" (1)

Damn. He hadn't expected her name to be called this soon! He wasn't ready for this. He couldn't do it. He was going to … No. Deep breaths. Breathe. Just breathe. He walked slowly to the door, eased it open…and found his arm instantly seized in a death grip. The new possessor of his arm dragged him the rest of the way through the door and halfway down the staircase before he even had an opportunity to sneak a glance over and see what she looked like. Eying her sideways, he was briefly stunned – she was a classical beauty, with long blonde curls, alabaster skin, and huge green eyes. Her dress was a massive, frothy affair, cut revealing low, and her ribbon trimmed silver mask merely framed her beauty, rather than concealing it. If Ed needed further proof that his interests lay more along the lines of tall, dark-haired military officers, he had it now, though; every other male within ten miles was visibly drooling, and he felt…nothing. Not a twitch. At least, until she leaned in slightly closer and whispered discreetly to him out of the corner of her mouth.

"I expected the military to provide me with a real escort, not a tiny, trembling, child. Embarrass me, and no one will ever find the three molecules of you that are left, I assure you, _little boy_."

Ed bit his lip and quelled the overwhelming urge to start ranting at the top of his lungs. He was able to restrain himself to merely hissing furiously, "Who are you calling a super midget so small that the step-stool he needs to see over a sheet of paper towers hundreds of feet above his head? Say it again and I'll draw you, quarter you, and sell you to the gypsies for sausages."

She smiled viciously, eyes narrowed. Without moving her lips, she asked, "Would the gypsies even notice you, all the way down there?" Before he had a chance to respond to that, however, she steered him onto the dance floor of the towering ballroom for the opening dance. Any breath for protest was soon lost as the orchestra struck the first notes and Ed devoted himself to mastering the complex dance steps, determined to prove his grace to this sneering woman. After a few minutes, however, even that thought was forgotten; Ed lost himself completely to the rhythm and music. For a brief moment, he was not aware of the woman clasping his hand, or of the other couples surrounding them; his thoughts were on another night, another place, where the same song had played while he danced.

* * *

Heaving a gasp of exhaustion, Ed flung himself down in a chair, barely remembering in time that leaning back would crush his wings. Damn Al. Diane sat down carefully beside him, as seemingly unflustered as if they had just walked across a room, rather than danced for over an hour. He glared at her irritably, certain that she was subtly mocking his sweat-soaked form.

"Little boy," she purred.

"What now?" he growled. "I'm exhausted; I'm not going to dance again, so you can just forget about it."

"No," she said sweetly. ""I'm a _bit_ thirsty. Would you be a dear and go to the refreshment table to get me a _tiny_ something to drink? It's only a _short_ distance, after all."

She had certainly picked up fairly quickly how best to push his buttons, Ed thought bitterly. Still, it was a chance to get away from her, something he sorely wanted. He knew he couldn't look too eager, so rather than stand, he whined, "Do I have to? What am I, your personal slave?"

"So, you learn quickly, my little slave boy. Now up, or I'll be forced to tell your superiors how _mean_ and _cruel_ you were to me, the important daughter of the Drachman heir. I like a wedge of lime in my drink, by the way."

"Fine, fine," he muttered, trying to hide his smirk – fortunately, the mask did a lot to help in this department as he walked across the ballroom, conveying with every step how much he wished he were back in his seat.

* * *

Once he reached the table, Ed decided to take his time getting the drinks, preferring to stand, as though waiting for his turn, and listen to the surrounding conversations. Most of them were standard party fare: who was dancing with whom, who was clearly wishing they were dancing with someone else, who would sleep with whom before the end of the evening, and a low undercurrent of political speculation and rumor mongering. He had almost worked up the nerve to return to Diane – who was beginning to shoot dangerous glances at him already for lingering so long – when he heard the first incensed, inarticulate exclamation behind him.

The man was obviously drunk. His voice was a little too loud for the room, dogged in its insistence on attention, wavering and slurring perceptibly. He stood, but shakily, swaying back and forth as though the ground were trying to buck him off. He seemed entirely oblivious to the attention he was attracting, thoroughly devoted to his angry rant.(2)

"D'you see that man?" he demanded, flinging an arm out vaguely. "Thass _Colonel_ Roy Mustang, hero of the Eastern Rebellion! He's famousth, he is! And all the ladiesth love him, he doesn' even have to ask, they just throw themshelves at his feet!"

At the name Mustang, Ed's head snapped around in the direction the man had pointed, anxiously trying to locate the colonel in the crowd. However, the room was crowded, the drunk had been somewhat loose in his indication, and Ed didn't know what costume Mustang might be wearing; for all his efforts, he couldn't locate him in the throng.

Having failed in ascertaining the position of the colonel, Ed's attention was drawn back to the scene directly before him; the drunk had not halted in his rant after one comment. Someone yanked at the man's arm, attempting to get him to calm down, or at least sit down, but he shoved them away and continued single-mindedly.

"But ya know wha' I think? I think…I think…he's a damn bloody bastard, I do! A filthy, scum-sucking bastard who doesn' deserve to walk the earth with decen' folk. A col' blooded, maniputive son of a bish. Prob'ly not even human, ya know. Somebody oughta tell him just wha' they think o' him, tha' he oughta be sent off to get his flames frozen on the north frontier, like we do with traitors."

"Lay off, Robert," someone in the gathering crowd shouted. "He's just a prat. It's not like he ever did anything to you."

The drunken man spat on the ground. "Shows wha' you know. Tha'…tha' _whore_ seduced my sister…got 'er into his bed…she really loved him and he just walked away like it were nothin', like she was just a cheap lay. He broke her _heart._ And ya know, the _great colonel_ gets away with that kinda thing too often. I'd like to break somethin' a his." At those angry words he turned in the direction he'd pointed earlier, face red and hands clenched into fists. "I think I'll go teach that bastard a lesson."

Ed wasn't expecting to say it. He'd bristled at the mention of the colonel, gotten more and more irrationally angry as the drunk flung insults at the man, but he didn't realize he was going to speak until the words were already out of his mouth and he'd crossed half the distance between the two of them.

"Blah, blah, blah," he drawled in a voice pitched to be heard over the crowd. "You know, idiots like you really piss me off. Some of us are trying to enjoy ourselves, but all you can do is yap like a dog and make empty threats. I'm not going to let you even get close to Colonel Mustang; you don't deserve to get the crap beaten out of you by him. If you really want to fight somebody that badly, you can fight _me_."

At those words, the man reeled to face his detractor.

"Yer all talk." He said harshly. "Bet in a real fight ya wouldn't last five minutes! But if yer that eager to have yer blood washed all over this pretty room, I'll certainly oblige, especially if it'll get me closer to that military slut Mustang. Yer on!"

He peeled off one of his gloves, drew back his hand, and slapped Ed hard across the face.

Ed smirked at him. "I'll say something nice at your funeral."

* * *

**Notes**

1. I hate OCs. I really do. But I had no choice. Just so you know, her name is Diane because I promised Alyssa, hanjuuluver's friend, that I would name an unpleasant character after her evil demon boss, who fired her last week and deserves to be tortured forever with whips and boiling oil.

2. See above on Diane. A few more details on Robert's presence and actions will be explained in the next chapter.

A/N: Good? Bad? Coffee? Please tell - I had a hard time figuring out where this chapter was going, but I think it came out okay. How about you? And on side issues, me, hanjuuluver and Alyssa (who does not yet have a fanfiction account or any sort of weird nickname, and is Harry Potter obsessed, not FMA obsessed, though we are working on her and have officially declared her Riza) went to the Big and Rich concert last night, which may not have been the brightest idea since I had a Calculus test of doom, but it was fun. We found Ed's and hanjuuluver's theme song - "Why Does Everybody Want to Kick My Ass?"! And an Ed/Roy song (any song can be EdRoy if you try hard enough) about jalepenos. Or something like that. And just a reminder: review!


	8. Who Was That Masked Man Anyway? Part 2

**A/N: **Hey, everyone, Happy New Year's! I bet you thought by now that I had absolutely dropped off the face of the planet, dooming this story to languish forever in the realms of abandoned fics, huh? For that I must apologize sincerely. In my defense, I HATE FINALS WITH A BURNING PASSION, NEARLY SURPASSING MY LOVE OF EDROY YAOI GOODNESS! Nearly. I always come completely unglued at the end of term, and it did NOT help that I had the finals schedule from hell. However, I GOT AN A IN CALCULUS!!!!!!!!!!!! I consider it an obvious act of god. I suck at calculus almost as much as hanjuuluver sucks at trig. But anyway, I survived evil finals only to be overcome by demonic amounts of laziness and writer's block. I have accomplished almost nothing, the past two weeks. Nothing! I feel like I've spent two whole weeks being controlled by the Lazy Bastard Colonel. Damn him. However, I finally managed to distract him with Ed enough to knock out this chapter, and while it's not my favorite ever, at least it's done. Now for the expected - thank you to everyone who continues to review! I'm so close to a hundred, and then I will just die of joy and excitement! So please review!!!!!!!! Please! I will become your eternal slave! Additional and more specific kudos to Jane Austen Girl for her advice on this chapter - she pointed out A) that Ed couldn't have a short rant, and B) that he couldn't do alchemy without a circle, because both of those would blow his anonymity. Thank you!

**Disclaimer: **Let's see. For Christmas, I recieved: a folder with Ed and Roy on it, an FMA calendar, a Blood Seal T-shirt, a new FMA wall hanging, the anime character profiles book, a 200 dollar Amazon giftcard with which to buy even more FMA stuff, and a fuzzy blanket with Roy on it (I love my dad. And my aunt and uncle. And Happy Moogle and hanjuuluver!!! And Jane Austen Girl, who gave me a copy of...Emma, by Jane Austen, which is also awesome!) The rights to FMA are clearly not listed among these items, much to my dismay.

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 8: Who Was That Masked Man Anyway? – Part Two**

There is an art to boredom. Anyone can be bored, but to look as though one is paying rapt attention while actually mentally counting the seconds until a drop of sweat falls from someone's nose takes real talent. At least, that was Mustang's opinion as he subtly stifled a yawn without allowing the expression on his face to change one iota. The expression was one of polite interest, the sort of face one wore when muttering vague affirmations like "Really", and "Then what?" and "Do go on." It was, he supposed, inevitable. Despite the fact that only about a tenth of the people in this room even knew what Roy Mustang looked like, despite the fact that Maes Hughes was the only person in the room who could identify him in his costume, the young woman he was escorting had, _of course_, immediately decided that the two of them were destined to be together forever, and had set out to make it as obvious to him as it apparently was to her. Why did this _always_ have to happen? Havoc might complain bitterly about Roy's ability to attract beautiful women, but he didn't realize that at times it was a damned annoyance. Especially when, as now, said beautiful woman had all the mental depth of a teaspoon and an astounding ability to prattle on about absolutely nothing for marathon bursts of time. Granted, this girl hardly stood out from most of the women Mustang dated. He knew it drove Havoc mad that his relationships with the girls he stole away rarely outlasted the night, but the Lieutenant just didn't understand that there was a vast difference between having a woman in your bed and having a girlfriend – being forced to pretend that you want to do what she does, that you care what she thinks, that you're interested in what she has to say. And if it's just a warm body in the bed beside you, what's the point in making sure it's the same body every night – why bother with the effort when they're all, more or less, interchangeable? At least that's what he told himself most of the time, usually just before walking up to a woman and offering his name.

"Are you even listening to me?" An irritated voice cut through his musing, and he jerked back to reality, a journey of quite some distance at this point.

"Honestly," she said, "You really should pay attention."

The exasperated look vanished, however, and he realized that somehow, without his noticing, she had managed to get behind him and wrap her body around his; her mouth rested just below his ear, and one hand stroked his neck lightly. Instead of its pervious sharp tone, her voice was now a purr. "If you don't, you might find yourself…consenting to things without knowing it…" she trailed off seductively.

At least he assumed it was meant to be seductive. Seduction is supposed to involve a measure of subtlety, and she was as subtle as a brick through a window. He growled under his breath. On any other night he would have at least pretended to be interested in her – he did have a reputation to maintain, after all – but tonight it just didn't seem worth the effort it would have taken.

"I'm flattered," he replied coolly, "But I would appreciate it if you would remove yourself. I can hardly perform my _duty_ of escorting you with you wrapped around my neck, _my lady_."

Her response to that, much to his vexation, was to secure herself more firmly around his person and start whispering extremely inappropriate suggestions into his ear of how exactly he could perform his _duty_.

Damn Hughes. This was all his fault somehow, Roy was sure of it. After all, Hughes was the one who had insisted that Roy attend the party, reminding him of the threats of court martial after he had tried to skip out last year. He couldn't think of any strings Hughes could have pulled to get him assigned as an escort to this odious little tramp, but he was probably responsible for it anyway. And then there was the costume…the costume Roy should have vetoed the second Hughes showed it to him, the costume he would have vetoed if he had more than four hours in which to find a new one (and forget about the costumes supplied by the Outfitting Department; he'd been there the day before, and all they had left was ballerina and fairy outfits). The damn costume that he absolutely despised but that every woman, particularly his date, seemed to find inconceivably sexy.

Roy still wasn't entirely sure a fairy costume wouldn't have been better than this. He supposed it could have been worse; he'd seen someone in long red robes and wings in the room the State Alchemists had congregated in before the ball. That would have been bad. On the other hand, that wouldn't have involved velvet, an ink-black velvet tailcoat to be specific. There was also a skin-hugging waistcoat of steel-gray silk, worn over a silver shirt, accented with generous cuffs and a cravat, both of blood-red lace. At least the mask was simple enough, a flat black, expressionless creation trimmed conservatively with jet and silver beads. Hughes had refused to explain exactly why it was also necessary to slick back his hair and dye it platinum blonde, but he had been impossible to defer (1). He had also been inexplicably stubborn on the issue of tooth caps that made Roy's canines appear long and pointed; Roy had been only partially mollified by the long black velvet cape Hughes had draped over his shoulders. He had certainly been less than amused by all of Hughes' comments about "Roy Mustang, Prince of Darkness, Master of the Night." He swore to himself now, struggling to breathe under the force of the affection of his companion, that the next time he saw Hughes he would suffer a slow and painful death. Involving hot oil. And possibly fire ants.

"Lieutenant Colonel Hughes. I didn't know you were here." His voice was flat, but the relief in his eyes was obvious. Okay, he amended in his mind, the _next_ time he saw Hughes the man would die.

"Oh, all the department heads get invited to these things, and since I'm in charge of Court Martials, that includes me. But aren't you going to introduce me to your date?"

That damned, evil smirk would have gone up in flames if Mustang hadn't been devoting most of his attention to breathing, now that his young woman had finally released his neck to extend a hand for Hughes to kiss.

"Of course," he said when he finally regained his breath. "Hughes, this is Flossy Hyuuga (2), daughter of the Xingian ambassador. Ms. Hyuuga, this is Lieutenant Colonel Hughes, head of the Department of Court Martial Investigations."

"Charmed, madam," said Hughes, gracefully taking her hand and raising it to his lips. "It is always a pleasure to meet a new acquaintance of the Colonel's."

Roy glared at him, mouth twitching slightly. "Don't I get a handshake?" He asked sneeringly.

Grinning broadly, Hughes thrust out a hand. Roy seized it and took the opportunity to pull him in tight enough to whisper in his ear, "Leave me alone with this psycho and I swear you won't live to see your wife and daughter again."

Hughes merely continued to beam at him – how on earth did the man stay so preternaturally happy and clueless all the time? Without batting an eye, he replied lightly, "I hope you won't mind if I intrude for a few moments. I certainly don't want to distract you two," and he raised his brows suggestively, "but you would not believe how boring some of these old military guys can be – obsessed with strategy, politics, all that sort of thing. I came over here in the hopes of seeing something a little more _interesting_."

Roy couldn't figure out what the man could possibly be implying by that, but it was reasonably obvious that Hughes was gloating about knowing something he didn't.

It was at that moment that he heard the first shout. It came from somewhere across the ballroom, and he twisted toward it instinctively, thinking someone was being attacked. It wouldn't be the first time that happened at these yearly events, after all. However, it was quickly apparent that there was no imminent danger, although the actual cause of the shout continued to elude him. Craning his neck, all he could see was that a circle was being cleared of tables, chairs, and people hastily in the middle of the room. Dragging Hughes behind him, Roy strode intently over, determined to figure out what was happening. The crowd grew increasing thick as he grew closer to the circle; the colonel was forced to resort to yelling and shoving his way through. When he finally reached the edge of the circle – shouldering past a tall man in a blue coat and a woman in a disturbing gingham dress – he grabbed the first person he saw and demanded to know what was going on.

The young man, dressed as a butterfly, paled under Mustang's glare and stammered out that there was going to be a duel. Roy turned to face Hughes.

"Please tell me you didn't know about this," Roy snarled.

Hughes' only response, which wasn't particularly reassuring, was to broaden his smile even more.

* * *

"Okay, here's how we're going to do this," Ed announced loudly. "No weapons, free-hand only, everything else goes. Winner is the last man standing. Meaning me. Alright?"

The man standing – weaving – across from him gestured angrily, but as it was accompanied by a nod, Ed chose to take it as consent.

For a moment, the two just stood there. Ed glanced around at the crowd surrounding them warily trying to keep one eye on the drunk in case he attempted something unexpected; he was half wondering if someone was going to ring a bell, or at least shout "Go." He found himself uncharacteristically reluctant to enter into a brawl with this man; normally when he threw himself into a fight, he had violently lost his temper, and forethought wasn't a problem. Now that he had the opportunity to actually think about it, he felt…nervous. Shy, even. Ed wished the other guy would just do something so he wouldn't have to worry about it anymore.

"Ah, damn," he muttered under his breath. "This is just stupid." With that thought, Ed threw himself forward, bringing one hand up in an uppercut that connected solidly with Robert's jaw.

In Ed's mind, the fight should have ended then. It was a hard punch, and the man was barely on his feet to begin with. One blow and he should have crumpled like a soggy sheet of paper, leaving Ed the obvious victor. In no world should he have been able to reel slightly and regain his balance in time to deliver a blow to Ed's abdomen that left the blonde doubled over and gasping for breath. Ed staggered back away from Robert, eyes wide in shock.

"Not as easy as you thought, huh?" questioned the man evenly. The thought that something was wrong flashed through Ed's head, but it took him a few seconds to realize what it was – the dramatic slurring and consonant dropping had disappeared from the man's speech. When he swept his eyes over him, Ed could also see that Robert was no longer swaying, but had instead dropped into a casual-but-prepared fighting stance.

"What the hell!" Ed fired back at him. "You're supposed to be drunk, you bastard, not punching me in the stomach!"

Robert gazed at him with one eyebrow raised. "Wow, kid, are you really that dense?" he drawled lazily. "I mean, I'm not _that_ good of an actor. Are you telling me you honestly didn't see through my act? I don't know if I should feel honored, or just sorry for you."

"He did not call me short, he did not call me short, he did not call me short," Ed chanted frantically under his breath.

Although his self-control was marginal at best, this brief pause was enough to prevent him from giving in to one of his infamous "Ed Short Rants," settling instead for a normal "How dare you insult me, I'll tear you into bits and step on them" rant. Amidst a stream of semi-coherent raving, Ed launched himself at the man again, this time lashing out with a barrage of punches aimed at his face. Unfortunately, it had about as much success as his previous attempt. Robert not only blocked all of the blows, but managed to seize him by the collar and throw him halfway across the circle. Ed avoided utter humiliation at least; before he hit the ground he twisted his body enough to turn it into more of a somersault than a fall, and landed on both feet. It was still, however, rather painful, and Ed bit off a string of curses with an unpleasant snarl.

"Did that hurt, kid?" inquired Robert mockingly. "I hope I'm not playing too rough with you. I wouldn't want our little fight to end before I have some fun."

"Seriously," Ed replied impassively, "Are you completely insane? Just for future reference."

"Come on, come on, I'm just doing a job, kid, no need to get all excited. Although I would have done it even without the money, you know."

Ed looked at him as though trying to remember when he'd last heard all the police sirens (3). "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, nothing," Robert replied melodramatically. "I'm just saying that I could hardly let a chance like this pass me by. I couldn't miss the opportunity to do something I've wanted to do so very badly. Do you what that is, kid?"

Ed realized that it was time for a new plan of action. Attacking this man head-on was blatantly idiotic and only likely to result in more bruises, if not outright defeat. If he kept him talking, though, it might be possible to surprise him and get the upper hand. Ed allowed a smirk to ghost across his lips; these evil villain types were all exactly the same. Give them a entry, and they'd talk about their evil plans for days, as if it never occurred to them that they could have already killed their opponent and been done with it. Still, Ed wasn't one to not take any advantage given.

"Is there any way to stop you from telling me?"

Robert glowered at him, arms crossed over his chest. "You're hardly in a position to get smart with me, kid. I'm going to leave you lying broken on the floor, and then I'm going to finish what I came here to do – destroy Roy Mustang."

Ed forced himself to roll his eyes and reply sarcastically, "Yeah, you and half of Central. I swear that man has more mortal enemies than the Fuhrer! It's ridiculous! What did he do, steal your girlfriend? Has it ever occurred to you to get a life?"

He looked like he was about to lunge at Ed and rip out his throat with his teeth. It was enough to make Ed a bit nervous.

"Why does everyone always defend that bastard? Why does everyone think he is so goddamn great? 'Oh, look, it's the Flame Alchemist, hero of Ishbal, the handsome, brooding, mysterious Roy Mustang. Let's all bow down and worship the ground he walks on.'" He glared at the ground, a twisted, bitter expression on his face. "That's what my sister always said about him. She was in love with the damn bastard, completely in love. She talked about him all the time, wrote him love letters, the whole damn deal. One day she walked into a café and he was sitting at a table; the second he saw her he asked her on a date."

"Let me guess," said Ed slowly, "He dumped her as soon as he got her into bed."

"He didn't even bother to tell her! He just disappeared! He didn't even wait for her to wake up, he just left."

Ed reflected that this was just too easy. He barely had to lead Robert at all. "So I suppose she took it badly."

"You're damn right she did! It just killed her. She loved him! She would've given him everything, and he treated her like a cheap whore, as if she wasn't worthy of him! She changed, after that. She stopped going out, stopped talking to people. She just let her _life_ stop, and it's all his fault!"

"So you're going to take him out, right, as some sort of warped vengeance for your sister?"

"Exactly! It has to be done. He deserves it! Can't you see that?"

Ed met the man's furious, slightly maniacal stare with an icy one of his own. "I can see it. I don't really care, though."

This time he attempted a kick, a high one, leg snapping out and up toward the man's throat. Instead of the solid sensation of his boot connecting with the man's flesh, however, he felt a searing pain shoot up his other leg. Robert had planted a kick of his own, striking flesh just above Ed's right knee. Ed felt his supporting leg buckle, and he scrambled back away from the man on his hands and knees.

"I don't get it," Robert said bleakly. "I don't understand how you can still be defending him. I don't get how you can still fight for him when you know what he is!"

And what is he?" gasped Ed.

"He's a monster," hissed Robert. "He has no conscience, he doesn't care who he hurts as long as he gets what he wants. Look at what happened in Ishbal – how many people had to die so that Roy Mustang could be a war hero? He doesn't care about anyone but himself. You can see that! He's cold and manipulative; he uses people for his own sick pleasure and tosses them aside when he's done. How can you defend a man like that?"

Ed pushed himself to his feet with a barely audible groan.

"You don't get it," he muttered. "You're not telling me anything I don't know."

"What the hell are talking about?"

"I already know that Roy Mustang's an incomparable bastard. I KNOW, DAMNIT! As far as I'm concerned, you could kill him and you'd be doing the world a _favor_. I'm not fighting you because I give a damn about what happens to him."

"Then why are you fighting me, kid?"

"Because you piss me off!"

Ed hadn't expected this to work, not after how badly the last effort had failed, but he was still disappointed when Robert stopped his punch by clamping a hand tightly onto his wrist and twisting his arm painfully behind his back. Then he felt his hot breath whisper against his ear. "I was only joking before, kid, about leaving you broken on the floor; I was really hoping you'd give up and spare me the trouble. You should have. Now I'm _really_ going to have to hurt you."

At his words, Ed felt panic flutter in his chest; he jerked violently away, wrenching his arm out of the man's grasp, before dropping down and thrusting out one leg. Robert swore violently as he fell, legs swept out from under him, and Ed threw himself on top of the man, pinning him down with his weight.

Ed didn't see Robert flex his wrist, so that something dropped from his sleeve into his hand. He only saw a brief glint of silver as Robert swung his arm sharply; then there was a flare of fire in a narrow line along his face, quickly dwarfed by a second fireburst in his shoulder. Gasping in shock, Ed struggled to pull himself out of the man's reach, hand pressed against his sluggishly bleeding shoulder.

"DAMNIT," Ed swore, panting from the pain, "You have a knife? Were you actually going to kill him, you psycho? At least you're not the only one with a bit extra up your sleeve. This is OVER!"

Ed had used the short interlude of his speech to discreetly sketch a transmutation circle on the floor; now he touched it lightly with both hands, and the room was briefly illuminated with blue light. When it faded, Robert was struggling ferociously against what appeared to be a section of the floor wrapped around his torso. Ed stood slowly.

"Guards," he shouted, "This man brought a concealed weapon into the presence of the Fuhrer and numerous important diplomats. I think he should be arrested and removed."

Without a further word, he spun around and strode off through a side door into the gardens.

* * *

Hughes was deathly pale; when he looked down, his hands were shaking perceptibly. He knew he and Al should have taken more time to do a background check on the people who volunteered for this thing! But how was he supposed to know the guy would end up being completely insane? Who would have thought he'd take it upon himself to come _armed_? Even if he couldn't have known, he shuddered to think what could have happened – what if the man had managed to defeat Ed and went after Roy? It would have been all his fault. Well, regardless of what might have happened, he still had a plan to carry out, and he was going to do it, damnit! Willing himself to look normal, he turned toward Roy.

"Maybe you should go after him, whoever he is. You know, just to make sure he's alright."

* * *

**Notes:**

Hanjuuluver informed me that she cannot even remotely picture Roy with blonde hair. I can do it, but only barely. But you must admit that the image of him as a vampire is extremely sexy. And just so we're clear, the point of the costumes is that Ed is wearing Roy's colors (lots of red and gold for fire) and has black hair like Roy, while Roy is in Ed's colors (black, steel gray for automail, and of course, blood-red) and has blonde hair like Ed.

Flossy is the name of Jane Austen Girl's psychotic yaoi muse, who is responsible for all the trouble we get into in English Lit. She is friends with Maude, my yaoi muse, which terrifies me tremendously. Hyuuga comes from me spending way too much time watching Naruto.

"I did not just escape from the insane asylum; those sirens are a complete coincidence!" Thank you, hanjuuluver's giant master killer quote list. On a side note, my mom once busted her friend out of the mental ward to take him to the bar.

4)I would also like to take a moment, before I get complaints on this, that for the purposes of this chapter, I assumed that while Ed can hold his own in a fight when he uses alchemy, he only had about a year of formal martial arts training with Izumi. In a more formal match, with no alchemy, against an opponent with years of training (and since Robert was invited to the party, he's probably a nobleman and has had years of training), Ed would really be at a disadvantage.

**A/N:** Please don't kill me because the fight scene sucks. I know next to nothing about martial arts (except for the approximately 5 Kung Fu lessons I took in China) and even less about just fighting. I did the best I could! Now, review, if only so I know that my extreme tardiness hasn't caused you all to abandon me.


	9. Who Was That Masked Man Anyway? Part 3

**A/N: **Hey look! This chapter didn't take an eternity to write! It's a miracle. Or possibly a sign of the apocalypse. But just so you know, my chapter posting will probably be a little erratic for a while, since I had the brilliant idea to return myself to the brutality of calculus and added on the evilness of physics (actually I like physics, but god, it's soooo much work!) and economics of doom. Point being, I have lots of schoolwork and not nearly enough time to do it in, and this story takes a lot of work, so it's going to take me a little longer sometimes to finish chapters. But I still have lots to write in this story (I have at least vague ideas of where I want to go for the next 4 or 5 chapters), so I will persevere. To this I must add a humongous gigantic thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter - I was worried my horribly long absence had driven off all my loyal readers, but you guys proved me wrong! You are incredible and awesome. I will you all find peace, happiness, and FMA plushies.

**Disclaimer:** I offered to sell my soul to Hiromu Arakawa in exhange for FMA, but she wouldn't bite. Something about damaged goods and poor condition. I wonder how much I could get from the devil?

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Nine: Who Was That Masked Man Anyway? – Part Three**

Roy resisted the temptation to run a hand nervously through his hair. He had put up quite an argument against Hughes' suggestion that he go outside and check on the young man he had seen fight. However, Hughes had pointed out that the man could be seriously injured, that no one else showed any signs of going after him, and finally that it would allow Roy further escape from Flossy, so the Colonel had grudgingly consented. Now he stood awkwardly in a small courtyard ringed by trees and flower gardens on one side and the wall of the palace on the other. The small lamps mounted on the wall cast a dim illumination over the courtyard, and on the young man who slumped on a bench at the far end.

Roy cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Excuse me, are you alright?" No point in beating around the bush, was there?

The voice was a growl, so low as to be almost imperceptible. "I'm fine. Go away."

Roy took a step closer. "There's no need to be rude," he said casually. "I'm just being friendly."

The man snorted loudly. "I don't even know who you are. Why should you care if I'm alright?"

Roy paused for a moment at that – it was a valid question. He couldn't think of anything in particular, so he responded with the offhand remark, "We'd hardly look good in front of our allies, not to mention our enemies, if one of our soldiers got killed at one of our events."

"Well, I'm not going to die, so you can go back in there in, tell them that and leave me _alone_," said the man forcefully.

Roy smirked, although he knew the man probably couldn't see it in the gloom. "I don't think so," he said. He slow movements had, by this point in the conversation brought him only a few feet away from the bench. "You see, I have this innate curiosity – part of being an alchemist, I suppose. I don't think I can leave until I get an answer out of you."

He couldn't see the glare, but he could feel it. "What are you talking about?"

"I want to know what possessed you that you would challenge Robert de Vassali to a fist fight. The man is certifiably insane. Not to mention that you did it at the most important diplomatic function of the year. Not subtle, are you?"

Just as he couldn't see the glare, he couldn't see the young man flipping him off; that didn't mean it wasn't happening. "It's none of your business why, _bastard_. And even if it were, there's nothing to tell. The guy just pissed me off."

Roy raised an eyebrow. "Judging by the way you were throwing yourself at him, I think he did more than call you names. Really, why did you do it?"

"Stop being so damn _nosy_. It's none of your _business_, so just forget about it!"

Roy glanced down at the man. "I don't see why you should care so much. You said it yourself – you don't know me and I don't know you. Even if it's personal, what can I do when I don't even know what you look like? It won't hurt you to tell a total stranger."

The young man sighed audibly. "You're not going to leave me alone until I tell you, are you?"

"No."

The words came out as a rushed mumble; Roy couldn't even begin to pick out actual words. "What?"

Another glare – he was on his way to setting a record. "I _said_, that jerk insulted someone I know and started threatening him. So I decided to defend him. Which is _stupid_, because I completely hate him. Completely and utterly, I hope his head explodes and he jumps off a bridge before being eaten by piranhas, hate him."

Roy whistled. "I'm impressed. Why such strong feelings?"

"Let's see…he's superior, he's sarcastic, he's manipulative, he's cold and selfish and self-absorbed and obsessed with promotion, he tries to control everything I do and he acts like he knows everything about me, he likes to make fun of me and humiliate me, and he doesn't give a damn about anyone. I hate everything about him!" By the end of this tirade, the man was gasping; his voice has risen to a furious shout and he was slamming his fist against the stone bench. "And you know what I hate the most about him?"

"What?"

Then he looked away, and his voice dropped back to a whisper. "I _hate_ how much I love him."

For once in his life, Roy was caught off his guard, and found himself completely speechless. The young man didn't seem to notice, as he continued in his rant.

"It's so _stupid_! The world isn't supposed to work like this; the world is supposed to be rational and logical, and this is just _stupid_! It's stupid and irrational and it doesn't make sense and I _hate_ things I can't understand and explain! And I can't understand why I love him, because I hate him, but I do."

Roy recovered himself then enough to ask vaguely, "Does he feel the same about you?"

The man's voice was bitter and self-mocking. "The bastard? I finally got up the nerve to confess how I felt about him, and you know what he did? He didn't even have the decency to tell me he didn't reciprocate; he let me think he felt the same, and then the next day, he blew me off by saying he'd been drunk."

Roy found himself growing inexplicably angry at this. "This guy sounds like a jerk. You're probably better off without him."

"You think I don't know that? I thought I'd hate him after what he did to me. I _wanted_ to hate him, because of what he did. I paid him back for it – I mean, it's Equivalent Exchange, right? He hurt me, so I hurt him back. But even then I didn't hate him. I tried to, but it didn't make a _damn_ bit of difference! Even after what he did, I can't just wave the white flag and surrender; I can't just forget the feelings I have for him because he doesn't feel the same. I still love that damn bastard."

Roy found that he couldn't meet the young man's eyes after that outburst. After a moment's thought, he asked gently, "What do you plan to do?"  
The man choked off a harsh laugh. "I don't really know. Leave, I guess. Never see him or talk to him again, try to forget this whole thing ever happened. What can I do, besides try to move forward? It's pretty pathetic, though."

The way he sat – hunched over, head bowed, arms wrapped around himself – made Roy think at first that he was crying, and he didn't think he could cope with _that_. Thus he was rather relieved when further observation revealed that the young man was not crying; it was just as though his emotional display had taken so much from him that he lacked the energy to say anything more.

The silence was quickly growing painful, and Roy didn't know how to break it. He had no idea what to say to the young man slumped before him. He had only intended to tease the young man about the fight, to release a little of the lingering fear and tension he probably felt after what had happened. He hadn't anticipated a confession like this, and he didn't know how he was supposed to react. People who needed advice and comfort went to Hughes, not him – and where was that jerk when Roy needed him? Emotional displays made Roy uneasy; he never knew what to say or do. Normally he would have just walked away, but now he found himself, unaccountably, wanting to offer the young man reassurance. He wanted to tell him that everything would be alright. However, he didn't know how to help him, so he just stood there, staring at the ground at the man's feet, unable to break the silence.

He saw the first drop fall, and simply stared at it bemusedly, wondering what it was as it slowly spread into a small circle on the dark ground. It was joined by a second, and Roy thought the young man had broken the silence by finally breaking down and crying. When the third fell, it occurred to him that it was too thick and dark to be tears, and then his brain finally caught up and supplied the word he had been searching for unsuccessfully – _blood_.

"Blood – you're bleeding. He hurt you, didn't he? I knew it, I told you, you should've…damn it!" he babbled absently, words spilling out without bothering to ask his brain for permission. His mind was occupied elsewhere – namely, running up the man's body, trying to find the source of the blood. Finally his eyes fell on the man's face; dark blood was welling up from a hitherto unnoticed gash across the cheek of his red mask.

"That looks ugly…you should let me take a look at it to make sure it's not too serious."

Roy bent down to examine the young man's face. One hand reached up to cup the mask as the other reached behind his head to untie it. The mask had only begun to fall away when he saw it – the young man's irises glowed a warm golden color. There was only one person he knew with gold eyes.

"_Edward_?"

"_Roy?_" Roy had a brief glimpse of hawk-like eyes that widened in shock and then darkened in anger. Then he felt hands slam against his shoulders and a booted foot shove against his chest, and he tumbled backwards. The young man – _Edward_, he thought dully, _it's Ed_ – stood, blind hatred radiating in every inch of his stance.

"You sick bastard. What the hell is wrong with you?" he asked flatly, voice trembling with rage. "Is this just some kind of twisted _game_ you're playing with me? Well, screw you, alright? I'm out of here."

And indeed, Roy thought blankly, Ed was leaving, was walking away, in a few seconds he would be across the courtyard and through the door and _gone_, and Roy would have done nothing to stop him. Not that he wanted to stop him; a day ago he would have been completely happy if the boy had walked out of his life forever and not looked back, and nothing had changed.

'_Are you really going to let him walk away?_' Asked his irritating internal voice, which sounded suspiciously like Hughes.

'_Why should I try to stop him? He made his choice._' Ed was halfway across the courtyard now.

'_You blew your first chance. If you blow this, you won't get a third, you know.' _He really hated his inner Hughes sometimes. The man could at least answer his damn questions.

'_I don't _want_ a third chance. I didn't want a second chance. After what he did – he blew it, not me.' _

'Are _you willing to lose this forever because you're too petty to forgive him?_' Ed was only a few feet away from the door. A few more seconds, and it wouldn't matter anymore; it would be all over, with no going back.

'_I can't forgive him! Not for what he did!_' But he knew his resolve was weakening.

'_To hell with your pride! You will regret this for the rest of your life!'_

'_But…' _How could he be losing to himself, damnit?

'_You can't let him walk away!' _

The first time Roy tried to say it, his voice failed him; all that came out of his mouth was a hoarse, inaudible croak. The second time, however, the word tore out of him in an unintentional shout.

"_Edward!_"

Somewhat to Roy's surprise, Ed halted at his shout and stood still, back to him, one hand outstretched to the door.

"Ed, I don't…you can't…I mean…_please_…" Roy took a deep breath. "I don't want you to leave like this. Not again. Please."

The blond whirled around, hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Why should I give a damn what you want?"

"Don't I at least get a chance to explain myself?" Roy asked him. "You did."

"What could you _possibly_ have to say that would make _any_ difference?" Ed demanded.

"I don't know. But I do know that if I let you walk away like this I'll regret it for the rest of my life."

"_Why?_ You didn't seem to have any second thoughts last time, so why should it matter now?" It would have been better if he shouted, Roy thought; the low, furious tones of Ed's voice were almost painful to hear.

"The things you just said…I didn't know you felt that way." Roy answered softly.

"You're a liar, Mustang. How could you not know how I feel when I told you to your _face_ that _I loved you_?!" Ed's voice cracked on the last words.

The resentment and guilt that Roy had been fueling for weeks washed over him now, making his next words far sharper, almost cruel. "You were drunk, Ed. You didn't know what you were saying."

That statement seemed to stop Ed cold; he simply stood blinking for several seconds. His response, however, when he was finally capable of making one, was not what Roy expected. "What the hell are you talking about?! I wasn't drunk at that party; that was _you_, if you don't remember."

Roy answered him coldly, "Don't try to lie to me, Ed. I tasted the alcohol on your breath when I…when I kissed you. And I don't know why you would think I was drinking, because I sure as hell wasn't."

Ed snorted. "I was _trying_ to get drunk. The bartender realized I was a minor and cut me off before I even managed to finish one drink, though. And you _told_ me the next day that you'd been drinking, _bastard_."

"But I never…" Roy's angry reply trailed off as a look of dawning comprehension spread over his face. He let out a laugh that was more bitter than amused. "This is so…typical, Ed. Only you could so completely misunderstand what I was trying to tell you."

With a spiteful glare, Ed said, "What are you trying to tell me now? Or are you just screwing with my head, like always?"

Shaking his head, Roy replied acerbically, "You always have to make things complicated, don't you Ed? You can never just let things go the way they were supposed to. I was trying to give you an out after that spectacle at the bar, because I knew you didn't _mean_ it. And you were _supposed_ to appreciate that I did it and spared you from being humiliated. You were _going_ to walk out of my office and never mention it again, so that we could go back to just being Flame and Fullmetal. But you can't let anything be that simple, can you?"

He knew instantly that that had been the wrong thing to say; the violent flaring of Ed's temper was visible, even before he opened his mouth again, even though he was still barely raising his voice. "You complete and utter bastard. What gives you the right to decide that?! And how in hell, after what happened, after what I said,after what I_ did,_ could you think I didn't mean it?!"

A different sort of person would have screamed it dramatically, or sobbed it out amidst tears; Roy, however, kept his voice perfectly level.

"I don't deserve you."

"_What?_"

Roy wondered if saying that had been a mistake, as well, but he couldn't take it back now, no matter how much he wanted to.

"I'm not going to repeat myself, Ed. You heard me perfectly well, I'm sure. But that's why I knew you didn't mean the things you said before; because I knew you couldn't love me."

"Why?! What's stopping me? Why can't I love you?" Ed challenged him, and the sight of those golden eyes filled with hurt and fury was too much for Roy.

"You can't love me…because you're too good for me. Because you're too perfect. Because you're too beautiful. Because I want you too much." He paused then, his voice barely a whisper, his dark eyes stubbornly refusing to meet Ed's. "You can't love me…because I love you, and I don't deserve that."

* * *

**A/N:** Gah, an evil cliffie of doom!! This was going to be the end of this three-parter, but in conference with Jane Austen Girl and hanjuuluver, it was concluded that this was a good place to end the chapter, so here you go. The next chapter shall be the conclusion of Who Was That Masked Man Anyway (not of The Dance Lesson, just of the events at the ball), if all goes according to plan. In the meantime I leave you all to speculate on Ed's reaction to Roy's confession. Because I'm just that evil. PS: Review! Oh, and bonus points for anyone who can guess the EdRoy AMVs I was watching on Youtube that gave me ideas for about half this chapter. I seriously need to get a normal life.


	10. Who Was That Masked Man Anyway? Part 4

**A/N**: Good Gods, it's an update! -Gasps and dies of shock - Okay, in my defense, I did warn you last time that I was going to have a hard time getting chapters up for the next few months. But really! It's been a month and a half, and that's absurd. I rather underestimated the degree to which Physics would completely and utterly kick my ass; between that class, Calculus, and the incredibly boring Econ of doom, I've barely had time to sleep, let alone do anything even approaching fun. So no chance to write, and when I did have time, I was too tired to think of anything, plus my brain kept getting attacked by oneshot plot bunnies (they need to make special shotguns for plot bunnies, they really do), all of which added up to me starting this chapter ages ago and then never ever finishing it. Gomen!!! But I finally managed to sit down and wrestle this chapter into submission, so here you have it. The final part of the four - part "Who Was That Masked Man, Anyway?" bit of The Dance Lesson. Which means the party is finally about to end - about time, considering they've been there since November! I would like to take a moment to stop and reflect that this story was SUPPOSED to be a ONE-SHOT! And now it is a massive, evil creation that has completely taken over my life. Heh. Anyway, to make up for depriving you for so long, I offer lots and lots and lots of fluff in this chapter. You have no idea how hard it was to restrain my psychotic yaoi muse, Maude; she kept insisting that Ed and Roy absolutely had to have "kinky-outside-at-the-party-where-anyone-could-catch-us sex." Alas, they are not sleeping together in this chapter, and probably not for another three or so chapters yet. Sigh. Such is life. ENJOY!

**Disclaimer**: If I owned FMA, I would have been able to BUY shirts with yaoi on them, instead of having a big t-shirt making party for Roy's birthday. For the record, I made: a RoyEd shirt that has upside down kissing and says "If I know what love is, it is because of you," a shirt with Ed kicking someone's ass that says "Who are you calling short?" a Hughes shirt that says "What would Hughes Do?" and a shirt with ANBU Kakashi that says "Lost on the Road of Life (that one made my aunt look at me funny. I think she thinks I'm going to go emo on them)". Fun-ness!

**Previous Chapter**: Since I left you a month ago on a cliffhanger, I thought I'd refresh your memory.

_"Why?! What's stopping me? Why can't I love you?" Ed challenged him, and the sight of those golden eyes filled with hurt and fury was too much for Roy._

_"You can't love me…because you're too good for me. Because you're too perfect. Because you're too beautiful. Because I want you too much." He paused then, his voice barely a whisper, his dark eyes stubbornly refusing to meet Ed's. "You can't love me…because I love you, and I don't deserve that."

* * *

_

**Chapter 10: Who Was That Masked Man Anyway? – Part 4**

'_How dare he?_' was the first thought that entered Ed's head after Mustang's unexpected confession. How dare he stand there looking so beautiful and saying what Ed had wished so much he would, without meaning a word? What gave him the right to make Ed feel like this over and over, after he'd already sworn he wouldn't ever again? How could the bastard _do_ this to him?

Ed stood next to the door, back to the glassed-in panes, hands clenched at his sides. Roy stood in the middle of the small courtyard, illuminated by the golden glow of the lamps, his expression a mix of assumed insouciance and poorly concealed expectancy. Ed knew Roy was waiting for him to say something, hopefully something along the lines of 'I never knew you felt that way, I love you too, let's go out and have kinky office sex.' Suddenly he couldn't stand it, couldn't stand that man having the nerve to stand there as if he had the right to expect anything of Ed after what he'd done. All he could think was 'How dare he?' It was an overwhelming thought, accompanied by waves of anger so strong that Ed couldn't contain it.

"How dare you!" he shouted. "I can't believe you can stand there and say that with a straight face after what I told you! Just how screwed up are you?"

Mustang blinked at him, and the wounded look was almost enough to convince Ed he might have been mistaken. Almost.

"I just told you I loved you, Ed. I didn't realize you'd be so offended by the idea."

All Ed's misgivings vanished as he heard the slight edge of smug sarcasm. Of course Mustang couldn't be telling the truth; he never had before, so why should now be any different? This was all just a game to him, just like always.

"I don't want to hear it, bastard!" Ed said.

Mustang's voice was puzzled as he replied, "Don't want to hear what? That I love you? It's the truth."

'Just shut up, bastard. I told you, I don't want to hear it! I don't want to stand here and listen to this crap about you being in love with me when I know you've said the same thing to a thousand girls whose names you couldn't even remember the next day!"

Mustang's voice was so low and flat that if Ed didn't know better, he would have thought the man was embarrassed, or even pleading with him.

"Give me some credit, Ed. I never tell those girls I love them; I don't want to promise them things I'm not willing to give." His voice trailed off for a moment, as though he had to prepare himself, although Ed didn't know why, because the bastard didn't mean any of it. "You're the only person I've ever wanted to say those words to."

The very small shreds of dignity he had left kept Ed from putting his hands over his ears and chanting "I can't hear you," but it was a close thing.

"Stop trying to lie to me, damnit! Stop trying to convince me you really mean this stuff, because I don't buy it!"

Ed could see Mustang was getting frustrated, and he wished the man would hurry up and snap and admit that this wasn't real, that he didn't really love him, that he was just saying those things to screw with him.

"Ed, damnit, what can I say to make you believe me? This _isn't_ just a game to me. I mean it. I love you."

Ed wasn't sure how much more of this he could handle, and a distant corner of his mind asked why he hadn't just fled this conversation through the door at his back.

"I don't care if you mean it or not! You don't even know what love is! I'm not going to let you keep jerking me around! I refuse to walk into your office tomorrow morning to have you tell me this was another mistake!" Ed stared resolutely at the ground. "I'm not going to let you hurt me again."

The sharp sound of flesh striking flesh echoed in the small courtyard. Ed felt the gash on his cheek beginning to bleed sluggishly again. Instinctively, he brought his fist up in an answering blow, only to find his wrist seized in a grip so tight he felt nails digging into his skin. This pain and the dull throb of his face, however, quickly faded from his awareness; he was far more occupied by the face shouting at his an inch away from his own. The fact that it was Mustang, legendary King of Cold Emotionless Bastards, actually losing control like that was almost as shocking, and as painful, as the words he was shouting.

"Would you just grow the hell up, Edward! You're acting like a damn spoiled _child_! Do you think you're the only one in this who has any feelings? Do you think you're the only one who's gotten hurt? Or did you forget about those _lovely_ posters of me that you plastered all over Central? How did you think I was going to feel when I saw those? Do you have any idea how damn hard it is for me to stand here and tell you how I feel about you after what _you_ did to _me_?! But I'm doing it, damnit, because I love you, because I've always loved you, because there's never been anybody but you, no matter how thoroughly screwed up that is. If I've _ever_ known what love is, it's because of you!"

The tirade ended abruptly, and Roy flung aside his arm as if he were disgusted by it. Ed took a step back, eyes wide and blank with shock. He didn't let his hand drop; instead, he raised it slowly to his face, running his fingers lightly down the cheek where Roy had struck him.

Roy flushed. "I'm sorry Ed, I –"

"Don't, Mustang," Ed cut him off, surprising both of them. "Don't apologize. I… I deserved that. I was acting like an ass."

"Ed…" Roy said, and trailed off. Ed didn't think he'd ever seen the older man at a loss for words before. Slumping back against the door with a sigh, Ed realized that he didn't really know what to say either. He was getting really, extremely sick of these awkward silences.

He looked up at Roy and laughed ruefully. "We are dysfunctional, aren't we?" he asked. "We can't even admit we're in love without nearly killing each other. What is wrong with us?"

Roy shook his head. "I really don't know, Ed." They both lapsed back into silence to contemplate that for a moment.

"What if it's too late?" Ed asked Roy suddenly.

Roy blinked at him. "What?"

"Even if I do believe that you're in love with me, what if it's too late? What if we've already gone too far to go back? You hurt me and I hurt you, and I don't know if we can forgive each other. I mean, it's not the kind of thing you can just forget. Have you considered that we may have already made too many mistakes? Have you thought that we've already lost our chance to have this?"

"I don't want it to be too late, Ed, or I would have let you leave. As insane as it seems, I really want to give us a chance. What do you want?"

Ed wondered how he was supposed to answer a question like that. The words came to his lips and died again as he realized he didn't know _what_ he wanted – he was lost in wanting this, wanting Mustang, wanting to be with him, but also wanting to leave, wanting to run away, not wanting to open up, not wanting to get hurt – and he didn't know what the answer was supposed to be, damnit!

Then he looked at Mustang again, and it suddenly seemed very clear. Impulsivity had always been his strong suit, and it served him well now.

"Oh, hell," he swore. "Damnit, Roy, I want _you_. Bastard."

This time Ed didn't wait for Roy to kiss him. He placed both hands on the taller man's shoulders and lifted his face slightly to touch his lips to Roy's. He stiffened for a second under Ed's hands, but then Ed felt his arms wrap around him, and the kiss deepened, became Roy kissing him as well as him kissing Roy, and it was perfect.

Ed pulled back from the kiss when he tasted a salty dampness on Roy's lips; raising one hand, he traced the line down Roy's face, and looked up at him questioningly.

"Oh no," Roy said. "It's raining."

Ed looked up. The sky was cloudless, as it had been all day. He could even see a handful of stars, despite the lights of the city. "Roy, it's not –"

"No. It's raining." Roy answered, wiping a hand down his face. "This is rain."

"Okay," said Ed, smiling, and returned to the kiss.

* * *

Several minutes later, Ed let out a sharp yelp, raising his hand to massage his shoulder, which was now burning painfully. 

"Ow! Jerk. Not so hard. You're going to make me start bleeding again."

Roy pulled away sharply, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "You told me you weren't hurt."

Ed rolled his eyes. "I'm fine. My automail took most of it; he barely nicked me. I bandaged it before you came out here."

Ed tried not to twitch at the finger that traced over the bandaged gash on his shoulder.

"I think tomorrow I'm going to visit that man and have a conversation with him about the advisability of bringing weapons to diplomatic events and using them on State Alchemists. He needs to be taught the error of his ways," Roy said with a cold smile.

Ed glared at him. "What, bastard, so now I can't defend myself? I kicked that guy's ass, remember? I don't need you to protect me."

Roy smirked at him and leaned closer. Ed shivered slightly; Roy's fingers had still been resting on his shoulder, and now he trailed them down Ed's chest, tracing small circles on the red fabric.

"I bet you're very strong," Roy whispered in his ear.

To Ed's credit, after he squeaked in surprise, turned scarlet, and shoved Roy away, he also hit him hard in the back of the head with his right hand. He then turned and walked to the door in as dignified a manner as he could considering that he was still blushing bright red.

"Where are you going?" Roy asked him, sounding hurt.

"I'm going back inside," said Ed. "You are a pervert. If I stay out here any longer, you aren't going to let me go back at all, are you?"

Roy grinned. "Absolutely not."

"I'm not going to stick around and let you molest me, you know! Besides, people are probably worried about me, after that dramatic exit. They probably think I'm lying out here dying of blood loss."

"Let them worry."

Ed turned and glared at him. "Easy for you to say. You're not the one that's going to get caught being molested by a superior officer when they come looking for me."

Roy blanched. "You know, maybe going back in is a good idea, Ed." He quickly made his way across the courtyard to follow Ed through the door.

Except that Ed's hand paused over the door handle, and instead of leaving the courtyard for the ballroom he merely stood there, frozen.

"Ed, what are you doing?" Roy asked. "I thought we were going back in."

Ed flushed a darker shade of red. "I don't want you to go back in there," he said. "You're going to go back to your date and I'm going to go back to mine, and it'll be like this never happened, and then tomorrow morning you'll call me into your office and say you were just drunk again." He scuffed a booted foot against the ground. "If you leave I'm going to lose you again, and then I'd have to kill you."

Ed felt a warm breath ghost across his ear. "I assure you, Edward, you will _not_ get rid of me that easily."

"Swear it," He said. "Swear that tomorrow we won't pretend this never happened. Swear that this won't be all I ever get. Swear."

Ed felt a hand tighten around his. "You are mine, Ed. I'm not giving you up now. I'm not letting anyone else have you but me. I swear. "

Ed grinned. "You're a possessive bastard. Think you'll be able to remember that when you're dancing with whatever cheap whore of a diplomat they paired you off with?"

"Don't remind me," Roy said wryly. "You have no idea how tempted I was to set her dress on fire…"

"I know what you mean," Ed said. "Mine is probably going to kill me when I go back in there. Or maybe just blackmail me into being her slave for the rest of my life."

"Do I want to know?"

"It's a long story," Ed answered. He looked (not up! A voice in his mind insisted) at Roy. "I'd rather dance with you. Even if you are horrible at it."

"At least I'm tall enough to see over the tops of my partner's boots," Roy retorted.

Ed twitched, but refused to give in to the temptation of letting loose a string of incoherent insults. He knew Roy was just trying to get him worked up. Roy had probably already forgotten that they had both agreed that it was too dangerous out here, that there was too much risk of being caught. He knew if he let himself get drawn into a fight, they'd still be out here after the party was already over. As tempting as that idea was, however, they really did need to return – they were probably in trouble already for ignoring their duty, and he _really_ didn't want anyone, particularly his date, to come looking for him.

Ed groaned. "We need to go back in, Roy."

Roy nodded glumly. "At least I can think about you when I'm dancing with that Xingian stick insect from Hell. Are we going, then?"

Ed kissed him once more, very lightly. "See you tomorrow, then?" he asked.

"Tomorrow, Ed," Roy replied, and turned the handle of the door.

* * *

Roy's passage down the corridors the next day drew a great deal of attention. Most likely, it was because the colonel looked…_happy_. Not smug and self-satisfied, not like one of his schemes had worked, not like something bad had happened to a superior officer, not like he was amusing himself by imagining how he was going to torture his subordinates that day, but actually _happy_. It was…odd, to say the least. 

Roy, needless to say, did not notice the many stares directed at him as he walked to his office. He did, however, notice when he opened the door and every head immediately snapped toward him. He subordinates once again had that suspicious look that suggested they'd been talking about him and didn't want him to know about it. He ignored it, waiting patiently for someone (most likely Hawkeye) to say something (most likely threats relating to how much work he had to do).

No one, to his irritation, said a word. They merely stared at him.

"Just what about me is so interesting?" He snapped finally. Whatever spell they had been under, his words seemed to break it, because he immediately heard Havoc snigger.

"Did you meet someone at the party last night?" The lieutenant asked.

"Why would you say that?" Roy asked.

"Because you look like you got –" Hawkeye clamped a hand over the man's mouth. Glaring at the blonde, she said, "He means that you look unusually happy, sir."

"Oh," said Mustang. He beamed brightly at Havoc before crushing his hopes of hearing the details of the colonel's love life with the remark, "My private life is none of your business, lieutenant."

He was reasonably sure that as he passed them walking across the room to his office door, he heard a voice mutter "but he does look like he got –" before being cut off in a pained yelp.

There was a piece of paper taped to his door. Roy blinked in surprise.

"Lieutenant Hawkeye, why is there a piece of paper taped to my door?" he asked dumbly.  
"I don't know, sir," she replied. "It was there when I got here this morning. Someone must have come in early this morning and left it. We were waiting for you to get here to open it." Which explained the impression he'd had that they'd been talking about him.

Mustang peeled the paper off the door. On closer examination, it proved to be a single piece of thick white paper, folded in half. His name was scrawled across the outside. Roy felt his stomach lurch in fear. There could be no mistaking that untidy, awkwardly left-handed scrawl. The letter was from Ed.

After a moment's thought, Roy concluded that if he was going to find out that Ed realized he'd made a horrible mistake and never wanted to see him again – and why else would Ed leave a letter for him on his door – he probably wanted to do it in the privacy of his office. Holding the letter delicately between two fingers, as if it might explode if he weren't careful, he opened his door.

Roy's first muddled thought as he crossed the threshold of his office and saw the vivid blue glow of a transmutation circle was that it was an assassination attempt. This idea had to be rejected, though, as the light faded and he was not dead, or even in pain, and didn't seem to be missing any key parts. In fact, for a second he thought the transmutation had failed and accomplished nothing. Then he looked up.

His office was filled with flowers. Every surface – desk, walls, floor, ceiling, everything – was covered in a riot of blooms. And they really were blooming, too; they weren't cut flowers that someone had piled up in the room, but appeared to be alive, growing out of the woodwork and bursting into flower.

He saw huge purple horns, and round blood red blossoms; white flowers that looked like teardrops and pink flowers that curled and twisted on their stems. Every space that wasn't dominated by the larger flowers was crowded with sprays of tiny blossoms in pink, gold, white, and purple. The mingled scent was sweet, and almost overpowering, strong enough that it left him almost giddy for a moment before he adjusted and began to pick out the scents of individual flowers; the red ones had a heavy, dark fragrance, while the white blooms lingered as a delicate, haunting scent and the pink flowers filled the air with a wholesome sweetness.

The alchemist in him noted clinically that the transmutation circle must have taken several hours to draw up. The rest of him didn't particularly care, being too busy being overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of the spectacle.

It was then that he remembered the letter he still held in one hand, and standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by flowers, he carefully unfolded it. There were not as many words as he had expected; in fact, it couldn't even be called a letter in the traditional sense.

_Yellow Acacia – secret love_

_Ambrosia – your love is reciprocated_

_Red Camellia – you're a flame in my heart_

_Gladiolus – I really am sincere_

_Buttercup – childishness_

_Asphodel – regret_

_Purple Hyacinth – I am sorry, please forgive me_

_Snowdrop – hope_

_Amaranth – unfading love_

_Viscaria – will you dance with me?_

_Ed

* * *

_

**Notes: **Kudos to anyone who picked up on the rain scene, which is from Hughes' funeral in the anime AND the manga. It is one of my favorite scenes of all time, because it is just so sad and beautiful; I had to include it somewhere. But, since I refuse to kill Hughes and always will, I decided to tweak it a little. I love it! And the Flower symbolism thing was inspired by JAG's lovely story "Enter the Victorians," although I used quite different flowers than she did.

**A/N**: Cheers to JAG, who convinced me that I should change Roy from Responible Soldier Roy to Total Pervert Roy. No promises on when I will have Chapter 11 done, although this week and next week should be a bit less stressful, so I might be able to get some work (aka writing) done. We'll see. The next chapter will probably be a bit of a breather, though, before we move into complicated relationship territory in the form of date the first. Just to let you know. Now please, please, please review, wonderful people! I will give you eternal lasting love, and maybe a cookie!


End file.
